I met Ilsa at work.
I would be hurrying down the hall
to the copy machine
or to deliver payroll
and she would be mopping the hallways
bending over to wring out the mop
swishing it across the tiles
and I would stop
and we would chat a bit.
Ilsa was 75 and proud of it.
I loved to be invited home with her
after work
for coffee and a homemade sticky bun.
Her house always smelled like toast
warm and buttery.
It held everything she loved
and worked so hard, at her age, to keep.
Three hutches in the dining-room
one for her old dolls and toys
one for all the souvenirs she and Tom bought
on all their trips
before he died
and one for her Christmas reindeer collection.
You could spend hours just looking at all her treasures.
One day she asked me to go with her
to look at a subsidized apartment.
I was shocked.
"Are you thinking of moving?"
I asked.
Tears welled in her eyes.
"I don't want to
but I have to.
My house needs a roof
painting
expensive things
that I don't have money for
and I'm having trouble getting up the stairs at night.
Some nights my legs hurt so bad
I have to crawl upstairs
on my hands and knees."
I felt so bad for her!
The next week I picked her up
and we went to see the apartment.
It was little
and about as warm and inviting as a cardboard box.
"Oh my, oh my"
Ilsa said
a horrified look on her face.
"Now where would I put my table
my hutches
my pie chest
and all my flower stands?"
And it was true.
The kitchen was teeny and narrow
the living room could hold one couch and one chair
the bedroom was a hole in the wall
and there was no wallspace to speak of.
"Where are you supposed to eat?"
Ilsa asked.
"If I put my table on this wall
it would stick out into the living room.
And my bedroom furniture would never fit
in this bitty room."
And it was true.
I couldn't see Ilsa in this apartment
at all.
She fussed all the way back to her house.
"I could stop working
which would help my legs
and my blood pressure
but oh it's such a little place!
I would have to sell everything I own
and love
my whole life down the drain."
Of course we both knew
that she had no choice.
But sometimes it's just so darn hard
to take the next step
in life.
Music Playing: Writing on the Wall
This page contains copyrighted material
©2001
GO TO CHAPTER 11
VOTE FOR ME AT CHRISTSITES!
HOME
