Being Two

The two thin, gold bands on her ring finger seem as though they are about to fall off. Her fingers are more meager, the bands used to fit snugly and now there’s so much air between metal and skin.

Her eyes have sunken a little more since the last time. And her frame has shrunk yet again. I notice her tasteful, brightly colored blouse looks brand new, presumably purchased to fit her smaller shoulders. The proud, straight-backed woman who used to walk tall in her 170 cm now measures a mere 162 and appears a shadow of her old self. Hugging her, she feels so slight, as if she has all but disappeared.

But her table is just as neatly and delicately set for the two of us as it ever were. She eats surprisingly heartily, it is clear the company has stimulated her waning appetite. And her mind is sharp as ever. She bounces effortlessly from subject to subject, just as in the old days.

She buried a son not many years ago. Then, another came awfully close. Last year, she buried her husband of six-plus decades.

“Do you miss Daddy, Ma?” my Uncle had asked her recently.

She explained how she didn’t miss him tangibly in day-to-day life – he had been on the road most of their lives and she was accustomed to being alone.

“What I miss,” she said, “is being two.”