The lady next door always loved to speak. I was rarely sure of the meaning behind her words, they seemed so well enunciated, however her intentions shone through her body language. She was a petit woman, full of fragility. Not like new-born fragility where you are afraid to expose this cocoon to any part of this damaged world: you use your hands to cup its face, squish their cheeks; see them for who they are and who they will learn to be. No. It was a fragility of old age, and fear. Respect must be bowed unto, and I was always mindful to not run around in her home. I could see how she savoured her life behind glass cases. Each luxury made of fine glass, sets of China plates, hung, seen, but not touched. When she would expand her bony fingers towards the glass knobs reaching for a plate, I was always reminded of her age. I had never really seen anyone reaching their ninetieth year on this earth, and I could not further imagine that at the end it all came down to these four walls of hers.

I’d like to say she was happy. There was never really anyone around her presence that could bother her, and no male figure fermented the space either. We liked to watch court room shows together. Watching victims of domestic violence, theft, abuse. Afterwards I would thank her kindly for sitting with me, wipe the crumbs off my fingers, (sometimes I’d forget and wipe it on my trousers) then I would tread on back, opposingly to our own four walls. No thoughts ran through my head between the time it took for me to get to my mother’s presence. “Yes there is a way for us to leave! For someone to listen!”