Mrs. Parker

Mrs. Parker died the other day. Aunt Dot was real tore about it. Black woman. 62 years old. 3 children. 1 grandchild I met. She had breast cancer. Went to her funeral. And the repass. Lotta people there. Kept bumping into old women talking bout "energy" and "youth." How much I still gotta learn. I walked Mrs. Barbara back to her apartment. She needs a bit of walking support her cane can't give her.

Take your time Mrs. Barbara. Mrs. Barbara has shortness of breath. Congestive heart failure. She talked while we walked. Not much. She said enough. I listened. Said how restless she got in her apartment. Can't really go nowhere wit "bad knees." The coldness makes her bones ache. A prisoner in her own home. Trapped in her own body. I listened to how she landed on words like "hang out" and "time." Thought about what it means to her. Dude passed us in the hall wishing us "Happy New Year and many more." What's that mean to her? Many more. How many? She plan to die in our building? Mrs. Parker did.

Mrs. Parker was Mrs. Barbara's friend. My aunt's friend. To me just one of the old lady's that live in our building. Mrs. Barbara's apartment is really clean. No. Neat. Doesn't look like she entertains much. Nice though. The 16th Floor units seem like they got more space than us. I gave Mrs. Barbara my cell number. Told her to call me if she needed anything. She doesn't have kids. "Grandbabies." Sisters. Brothers. Nieces. Nephews running round like Mrs. Parker's repass. Lotta noise before. Now, pure silence. Don't know why I felt some type of way. But I did. Death. Age. Youth. Time. Strange.