A few notes on old people

The subway car was full. People were tired, on their way home. Rushing to grab a seat as soon as one emptied, they sat down, closing their eyes, or pulling out something to read –oblivious to what was around them.

The two walked in slowly, almost as if the door chimes were not invented for them – they were in no hurry to get anywhere. Hurrying had long been erased from their list of priorities – replaced perhaps by long exercises of trying to remember which stop to get off at. The automated door mechanism didn’t know respect, so it closed quickly, almost clipping the back of his white short-sleeve. She carefully pulled him in by the hand, trying to advance to a safer spot. The people in the door stepped aside in slow-mo, a bit annoyed by the new passengers attempting to pass by. Eventually, a woman noticed their white hair and got up. The lady next to her pretended not to realize both of them needed a seat, and continued her lecture.

Although at first sight the woman seemed to be the most frail of the two, it was her who stepped aside and allowed him to sit. You would realize only after seeing his face that his sense of space and time had been lost, and that her firm handgrip was the only thing that kept him connected to this world. She only let go of his hand as he leaned on the side panel, and started to breathe easily, hunched in his seat. She then put her hand on his straw hat, fixing it on his head – a gesture of complete tenderness and intimacy. No, he didn’t complain for being treated like a child – his gaze was floating around, measuring the air in between things. She planted herself in-between his seat and the woman who wouldn’t get up, making sure that he was well protected from all sides. It was probably not what she had signed up for, years and years ago – the role of vigilant watchdog. He was for sure not the same guy she had put her signature next to after having been asked if they willingly agree to wed. But here they were, in this Toronto subway car, crammed with all these strangers, making their way to their grandchildren’s place, or the doctor’s or the nursing home. And as her wrinkled eyes slid from the wall map to his helpless grimace, she smiled at the memory of their younger selves, whispering to him: “honey, we’re getting off at the next stop!”