The unforgotten old Lady’s house.
She was a short elderly Hispanic lady. She would wait in the living room with the door open in order to see me when I came by to deliver her mail. She did anything she could to strike up a conversation. It’s as if I were her only friend, the only person she could talk to, the only one that would listen.
Over the next few months, she would come to tell me the story of her life. She had come to America and become a translator at the United Nations thanks to her knowledge of five languages. She loved to re-live the memories. The important meetings she attended, the apartment in Manhattan, the people she rubbed shoulders with, the parties she enjoyed so much.
She now lived in a small, humble two bedroom house in Miami. She had never found time for marriage or children. Her nieces had been coming by in order to lift any valuables they could get their hands on. Over time they had taken her jewelry, furs and other possessions she had acquired over the years. They no longer had a reason to drop by, and so they didn’t.
Last time I saw her she was sitting in the living room. When I dropped by to deliver the mail, she asked me to help her with her oxygen tank. That day she confided in me that she felt forgotten. Her acquaintances, money, possessions and family were all gone. I opened the valve and as she thanked me I asked if I should call someone. She laughed and informed me that a nurse would be by shortly. Two days later, I found out that she had passed away in her sleep.
The house remained vacant for two years as the nieces fought for possession and now belongs to another family. The old lady is now remembered only in my mind.