The past walks with me every step of the way, colors where I go, what I say. So one recent Saturday I went to a rummage sale only because it was next door to the duplex where Pearl lived. I hadn't run into her in ages, but I often think about her, especially when I pass her house.
"Is Pearl still around?" I asked the rummage-seller.
"No, she died a couple of years ago."
"She was a nice woman," I said, as my sunny day turned grey.
"She was a VERY nice woman," replied the seller.
"How old was she?"
"Ninety-one. She lived a good life. And the owner of the duplex would check every day to make sure she was all right."
"Did you ever see her son?" I asked, aware that the only thing I knew about him was the city he lives in.
"I've lived here 48 years, only met him twice."
"Yes, she never wanted to talk about him," I commented.
"She was so nice. She didn't deserve that."
"I knew her from the Shorewood Pool."
"Oh, yes, she swam every single day."
And so did I. For well over twenty years. How many hundreds of half-naked chats did we have in the locker room?
Pearl radiated warmth and acceptance. She resembled my mother, in appearance, in demeanor. They were both themselves, no pretensions. And they surely came from the same part of the world. I always wanted to introduce them to each other. As I left the rummage sale it struck me that Pearl would be 93 if she were still alive, and so would my mother. Did Pearl lead a good life, despite the absence of her son? All those chats, and I have no idea of the answer. I don't know how she spent her days, what she did, who she was, yet I do know that her death means one more layer of warmth and acceptance has left my life.
