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Reflections September 2015

Emma and Her Cart

By Marti Healy

Emma talked about her grandbabies and disabilities and how she needed to get back to tend to them both pretty soon. Her hair wasn’t even grey yet, but her body seemed so tired, her soul as old as time.

It was the weight of it that I remember most.

Emma was pulling a two-wheeled shopping cart along the main street of our small southern town. It was neatly stacked, yet crushing in on itself with bags of indefinable possessions and necessities and other important things. A child’s car seat leaned across the top of it all – but it kept falling off. With the slow ache of patience, she repeatedly retrieved it, and tried to balance it once again on top of the other items. Then she tipped the cart behind her to pull it across the intersection. But the traffic was too much, and she turned back. And the car seat fell off.

In response to my offer of assistance, Emma gave me half a smile and half the space on the cart’s metal handlebar for me to grab hold. Pulling one side of the cart with her, I was overwhelmed with its sheer weight. I was pulling just half of it, and it took a significant amount of strength and effort.

Emma herself probably weighed no more than 100 pounds, her body curved forward with shoulders that no longer straightened, thin and worn like the t-shirt that covered her small chest. The shirt was grey and had words on it. But I can’t remember what they said. All I noticed was the color of the soul wearing it. And that was a lot of different hues and shades, but none of them were grey.

I asked where she was going, and she described someplace I did not know, but it seemed to be on the far north side of town. So I suggested that she join me for lunch at the local deli. She said she’d never eaten there before. But she was glad when I told her it was one of the oldest places to eat in town. A couple of nice gentlemen seated outside promised to watch her cart while we went in to order. A friend of mine ran into us in line and shook hands with Emma and engaged her in kind conversation.

Emma explained that she had problems with her teeth and problems with her stomach, but she decided on a barbecue sandwich that seemed to be okay on both accounts. We sat outside to eat and watch the cart. Emma talked about her grandbabies and disabilities and how she needed to get back to tend to them both pretty soon. Her hair wasn’t even grey yet, but her body seemed so tired, her soul as old as time.

And yet, beneath it all, in spite of it all, perhaps because of it all, what struck me most was that Emma was a woman, just like me. We had as much in common as our differences, I think. We each have life experiences that make us happy and those that break our hearts. We both like dogs and sitting in the shade on a warm day with a cool breeze across our legs and sweet tea with ice in it. And maybe someone to talk to just so we know we’re still alive.

I think both Emma and I drag our stuff along with us wherever we happen to be. And some things keep falling off and have to be put back on over and over again. And sometimes, I suspect, “our stuff” feels infinitely heavy – until someone else grabs hold to help pull it along with us, even if it’s only for a few minutes.

I think I will remember Emma for a long time. I know I will remember the weight of her load.

 

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