The Cane
A gnarled hand grips the cane as she shuffles toward the door. Old, bent over, walking is almost impossible without the help of her stick.
The lines etched in her face tell the story of a life long-lived. Once young, with the world full of promise, her later years are anything but. Enveloped and now displaced because of a war she has no part in, she sits in her chair, fingers thumbing her prayer beads, and smiles. Her cane is not the only help she gets.
Accompanied by her widowed daughter and two grandchildren, she tells her story.
They came twice, seeking answers to questions, and she shared openly with them about her circumstance. The visitors were friendly, “nice” as she puts it. Most of all, they did something. And she knows the name, “Bahar”.
In her house, jars and bowls display what she has received, what she can see. Red and green lentils, bulgur are among her favourites, but there is much more, and she and her daughter and grandchildren rest in the security that they will eat, not only today, but every day.
As she sits in her chair telling us her story, her cane waits nearby. Help. Everyone needs it, some more than others. The elderly woman and her cane know this very well, and her life is better because of it.
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