She was an ascetic looking woman, tall and thin, striking in her demeanor and appearance. We children called her Mrs. Just that nothing more. Often she would unfold her chair next to our Brooklyn stoop and watch the next generation passing by. I always felt that her silence reflected some emotional spirit. Seldom speaking, communicating through a gentle touch or smile, a feature in our neighborhood. Part and yet apart from all she observed.
I was young and inquisitive. Mrs. and her mysteries were a challenge. Often I would walk slowly by, sit next to her, mimic her reserve. She would smile, look down, patiently, eyes looking directly into mine. It was a mother’s smile, a smile of remembrance. Without a word Mrs. would unwrap small candies, place them in my hands. I thoroughly enjoyed our times together.
The neighborhood was full of children, running, playing, boisterous. Alan was five, full of energy beyond imagining. He liked throwing his ball at the nearest stoop. Once it bounced close to Mrs., hitting her chair. Slowly she knelt, picked it up. For a moment she held it, then tossed it back. In that instant I noticed something unusual. Mrs. had a number on her arm. It was a five.
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Children cannot comprehend evil. They play through one day and out the other. Life, in its disorder, remains innocent. There are rules, tomes and pleasures. Mrs. was part of our tapestry. Yet there was something different. There were loose threads. Five only added to her riddle. We accepted her because she was there just as we accepted the chair she sat on.
I am older now. I understand what that five meant. It signified something that no child should ever have to understand. A quintessential evil born in darkness. I understand why her eyes moistened when she smiled. I understand why she seldom spoke, acknowledged few acquaintances. Incomprehensible loss can produce an inward fixation. Loss affected so horribly dulls the senses. Life proves a transient affair. Loneliness remains a lover you can trust.
