Passing

In the mornings when I’m crossing the road near the station, it's sometimes with this old lady. The first time I saw her, she was inching closer and closer to the edge of the pavement, and I wondered why she was so eager and in a rush to cross, a trait I’ve seen so often in my own mother.

The lights switched and it turned out that the inching was more of a hobbling, as she could only take small, shaky steps to walk. The small grocery trolley she had in front of her was for support rather than storage. I wasn't sure if the time was enough for her to make it across. I slowed my steps, lagging behind strangers, but I was still quicker, and if I slowed some more it wouldn't be any more obvious that I was watching her, which for some reason seemed like a bad thing at the time.

I stepped onto the other side. throwing glances back, I saw that she needed just a few more seconds, and the waiting cars thankfully gave her that.

…every time I see her, I feel an inexplicable sense of sadness. I don't think I pity her, because she tries her best, and I’m not going to assume or imagine that things aren't great at home for her. I wonder, with slight suspect, if it's because everyone else walks by with their faces in their phones, not showing a sliver of concern, or just hiding it. Maybe someone else looked back and I missed it, because I, too, walked ahead seemingly uncaringly.

Or maybe, I feel pity for myself, that I see more gusto and push in her than in me.