abuelita

There’s an old lady who lives in my building that I see every so often when I come home for lunch.

She stands with her cane on the step before the door in the shade waiting for someone to come open the door. She has keys, but I think it’s hard for her to use them because the lock is temperamental and the door is heavy. So she stands there, saying as I walk up smiling, key in hand, that she has all the time in the world and she doesn’t mind waiting.

Then she ushers me in and up the stairs before her, calling me hija, saying hasta luego before our conversation is over. She shuffles across the floor toward the stairs and tells me “poco a poco.” Little by little.

And I still hear her shuffling and grunting up the stairs as I unlock the door to my third floor apartment.