#92, Lorraine

You always used to come shuffling along the sidewalk. We could see you when you appeared at the corner, and then always knew to do other things for five minutes or so because it took you such a looooong time to reach us. But as soon as i knew you were in earshot, i would put down my roses (or sunflowers), smile and say 'Hi, Lorraine!' A whole world of young, gleaming adults zoomed and bustled by on either side of you but it was is if you didn't even notice. You would carefully navigate your walker over to one of the crumbling concrete tables in our ersatz seating area and then sit down with the speed of a sleepy snail. Our boss had known you for years. Every so often we would put a broken daisy (or iris, or whatever) into a water tube and rubberband it to your walker to brighten your day. You wore men's clothes, and had such awful personal hygiene that it was sometimes quite off-putting, but we knew you were very old and when you get to that age 'whaddya gonna do' (your words). You lived on the next block over and had someone coming to look after you but we never met that person so it was very hard to imagine. One day my coworker told me a story you'd related to her about being young a long time ago in San Diego: When swimsuit lengths were to be no higher than the bottom of the knees (seriously– there were men who measured to be sure), you used to wait until they left and then roll yours up as far as you could get them. It drove the guys wild.

Lorraine, you stopped coming by one day quite unexpectedly. We waited for you all that week but you never came. After a month or more we found out that you'd been put into an assisted living facility. i still check the obituaries. Yours was a life.