I’d been fighting my way through the Los Angeles transit system for a good hour. Now, after a few false starts and a hike of considerable length, I hoped I was at the right bus stop. It was then that I noticed her.
She seemed to be made of paper. Thin, white hair. Scarcely a whisper of a woman. Her frailty defined her. How old was she? Hard to tell. Seventies? Eighties? Almost transparent, she stood by the bench at the bus stop, frantically dialing her cell phone held just inches from her face.
“Where is the taxi? I’ve been waiting here for an hour. No, no one has come. Please, how will I get home? I can’t see!” Her voice, poised on the edge of panic, trembled with unshed tears.
Just then, my bus pulled up. What could I do for her? I touched her arm lightly, not wanting to frighten her further. “Are they coming?”
“They say they will come. I have to get home!”
“It will be all right – I’m praying.”
“Oh, thank you so much for your kindness!”
I can’t stop thinking about her.
