It was raining heavily and the cold air hung heavily around. She pulled up her worn leather boots under her yellow dress and put on her hat. The heels of her boots made a pleasant clucking noise as she briskly walked across the streets towards the park in the corner. She needed to speak to her today, it had been a while now that she is back on those meds and she wanted off. She needed to speak to her. Cuddling herself underneath her coat she broke into a slight run as she panicked at the sight of the empty seat on cathedral square. The ginger cat sat curled in a ball on the park bench motionless. She sat down beside the cat and all of a sudden felt a pang of loneliness wash over her. Her heart began to beat faster as she heard hymns being sung in the chapel of the cathedral in the middle of the city. Chatter from the crowd that is huddled on the steps of the overflowed chapel drew her attention to listen hard to the conversations that were revolved around a single subject. The little old lady that lay in that coffin inside.
As the rain turned into a storm and the thunder began to roll, the crowd huddled closer, undispersing. She drew her knees up towards her chin and lit a cigarette. The ginger cat huddled closely beside her. I watched her eyes attentively as her eyelids fluttered slowly. The cold air closed in tightly around me as I approached the cathedral building and walked around in search for an open window. I crouched to sit on the ledge of one close to the pulpit and peered in. Taken by the sight of tears streaming down the faces of the strangers I listened attentively to the words of each person as they told the story that painted me a clear picture of the little old lady.
That little old lady was not much to look at. To some, more than others, she was but a sore sight on the park bench feeding them stray cats every morning. The stench of her was rather strange, almost like one who is so old she has absorbed all the smells of the earth, and so to most she was just another homeless hob. And yet, the little old lady, when she died, left a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine.
I observed every detail of that tall distinguished gentleman closely. His voice boomed loud and clear as I listened attentively. His white hair was neatly combed and his black leather shoes were shiny. The well-fitted black suit complemented his well-built body perfectly. There was an expectancy in the silences when he paused. He slid his right hand into his pocket and his eyes searched the crowd. He was articulate, intelligent, and appropriately humorous. The man, who most recognised, I gathered had a social status and a bank account coveted by many but as his words gushed out and his voice began to quiver I saw behind that integrous stature, the raw soul that was touched deep by the little old lady.
That little old lady was not much to look at. To some, more than others, she was but a sore sight on the park bench feeding them stray cats every morning. The stench of her was rather strange, almost like one who is so old she has absorbed all the smells of the earth, and so to most she was just another homeless hob. And yet, the little old lady, when she died, left a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine.
Stranger upon stranger stood upon that pedestal to give tribute to the little old lady and I watched in amusement. For me she was but a small part of my life. She was my Monday morning coffee companion. My Monday mornings were the most depressing of all days. Usually waking up with the blues these mornings were devoted to the homeless shelter where the most depressing of all faces bearing sad stories were soaked up by my raw soul and by the late morning, when it was time to walk out again, I often found that all hope had been quite zapped from me. The little old lady, the one who saw my baggage carrying soul. On one of these morning I found myself being the recipient of a charitable act from a homeless hob of a lady in the form of a take away coffee, company and a wholesome heartfelt conversation. From that Monday onwards I bought the coffees, but she never failed to be there, just for me to pour my raw and sore soul.
That little old lady was not much to look at. To some, more than others, she was but a sore sight on the park bench feeding them stray cats every morning. The stench of her was rather strange, almost like one who is so old she has absorbed all the smells of the earth, and so to most she was just another homeless hob. And yet, the little old lady, when she died, left a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine.
The morning turned to noon and the voices that related similar stories to mine streamed. As the middle aged single mother with a baby on her hip stepped down the yellow dress floated slowly towards the pedestal. The heels of her boots clucked pleasantly against the wooden floorboards of the old church. Her voice began strong and confident as she animatedly drew the crowds in as I began to enjoy the slight warmth from the slice of sunlight that shone through an opening in the morning mist. The afternoon sun was beginning to show through the grey clouds and I took a deep breath as she took hers to swallow the lump in her throat. The cool air however suspended and hung tight as the silence was broken by her gentle whispery voice.
For me, to wake is an achievement. She paused and searched the crowd and looked into each teary eye that was on her. To steer myself away from overdosing on another sleeping pill, or cutting myself with another blade is my daily challenge. Darkness often has a tight grip around me and to get a glimpse of hope, in any form at all I consider a miracle. Like any cancer patient in pain, for me, to live a day without pain, and to break my lips into a smile, is a day better than any other. A pained yellow dress, bearing pains of humanity like any other.
The drizzle turned back into rain as all ears turned to listen to her story. It was almost as if the whole city stopped to hear her story. Each ear linked to a heart that hoped to be inspired by the voice of that yellow dress in leather boots. Each heart hoped very hard that the little old lady did not live a life of nothing, despite having nothing, and so each silence, each breath, in that cathedral was filled with expectancy of a story that will tell us what we hope. That each life, means more than less.
Her gentle whispery voice continued. The quiet orphan girl, who found charity not in the social worker, nor the homes of the hundreds of foster families she had breezed through. She found charity not in the cold hard school teacher nor the nun that failed to take a moment to stop judging her for wanting nothing other than to find relief in death. She found charity not in the employer who thought she was giving her the biggest favour in helping her find a career. Charitable favours, in those she saw. But the charity that held her tight to the promise to wake up each day was given her by a little old lady on the park bench at cathedral square. In that trivial little lady, who found time in her triviality to see an aching raw soul among the millions that pass her by. There before her was a little old lady, a cold wintry afternoon and lukewarm coffee. In a cup of take away coffee, company and a wholesome heartfelt chat the girl found reason to trade her black dress for a yellow one. The lady taught her to see through the coloured lenses of hope and through the little old lady's lenses she saw for the first time, the world in colour. The girl in the yellow dress whispered from the wooden pedestal. She always told me life was more than less, that trivialities, are the big matters. Each life is more than less.
I looked around the art gallery at every shot and scene of the photographs that were displayed around the hall. On the right were black and white and grey figures, apart from the single figure on the park bench at cathedral square, and on the right were coloured figures, apart from the single black and white figure on the park bench at cathedral square. In the centre of the room a row of photographs, in black, white and grey, and a small space on the park bench at cathedral square. A small space that screamed loudly indeed. The single space that used to colour hopeless faces. That is why, in the absence of the single coloured figure, is a space too big to ignore.
That little old lady was not much to look at. To some, more than others, she was but a sore sight on the park bench feeding them stray cats every morning. The stench of her was rather strange, almost like one who is so old she has absorbed all the smells of the earth, and so to most she was just another homeless hob. And yet, the little old lady, when she died, left a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine.
She left a space bigger than just the absence of Monday morning coffee, and in that space I was inspired. She left a space bigger than I could imagine, and in that space she was inspired. I smiled as she packed up, slung the camera on her right shoulder and shook some hands as she turned to walk out.
That little old lady was not much to look at. In the cathedral that morning the picture was painted. She was more than a sore sight on the park bench feeding them stray cats every morning. She was more than just another homeless hob. The little old lady, when she lived, coloured a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine. The little old lady, when she died, left a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine.
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