No Names Needed

   Earlier this week, I was up in Barrie to accompany my 83-year-old Aunt to the Royal Victoria Hospital for her cataract surgery. She's fiercely independent, living alone in her own house still, and doing well at it. She still does most of her own yard work, and shovels snow in the winter. Quite the one for doing things on her own, but this was one time she had to accept some help.
  When she was called to begin the procedure, I gave her a kiss on the cheek and watched her walk off beside the nurse, then I headed down the hall to the "Royal Cafe" for a morning cup of coffee. I had three hours to put in, and knowing that beforehand, I had brought along my crocheting, ready to pass the time. The cafe is a beautiful, bright spot, with a roof that vaults three stories high, and an edging of plants that make their way around the entire area. Most of the tables around me were empty at that moment, no-one sitting at them yet. I bought a large coffee, and settled down with the lap robe I was working on at the moment. It was nearing completion and since I felt sure that my Aunt would be fine, my only concern was if the lap robe would present me with enough work to occupy me for the three hours.
   Only a minute or two after I began wielding my hook, a woman approached my table. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, average height, with long brown hair tucked behind her ears. You could see that life had not been treating her very kindly on that day, because her face looked haggard, and her eyes were red and swollen. One glance was all you needed to see that the tears were hovering, just one thought away. "Would you mind if I sat here for a bit?", she asked. "Of course not," I replied and she sat down opposite me. We sat there in silence for a moment, and I wondered what I could best do for her. Did she simply want some companionable silence? Did she want not to be alone for a minute? With so many other tables, empty, she must have sat with me because she needed something more. I stood up then, and took a step toward her, lifting up my crocheting so that the length of the lap robe showed. I told her what I was making and then draped it across her lap. Involve all the senses you can, I thought, get her to be totally present in this moment and leave whatever else behind for just a little time. She fingered the yarn, stroking her hand across the work, and then a tiny smile braved its way past the threatening tears and lit up her face. That was my signal.
   I sat down again and launched into an animated recounting of my crocheting, telling her I was thoroughly addicted to it. I told her how I crochet my way through Toronto Maple Leaf hockey games, crocheting faster when we're winning, and stabbing the hook through the yarn when we're losing. I told her how I have been crocheting for so many years that I have now littered Toronto with my doilies, and afghans, and baby blankets. I talked about giving my creations to family and friends until there was no-one left without at least one of my pieces. All the while I watched her to see if she was still coming along with me on my little journey away from the difficulties of that day. Her eyes were fixed on me, so I continued.
   I began to tell her about how I also give a great deal of my work to a women's shelter that I know of, here in Toronto. I told her the story of how I first became aware of it, more than two decades ago. I dragged out all my best story telling techniques, to take her back with me to the days when my daughters were very young, and help her to see them as they raided their piggy banks each Christmas to buy some drug-store chocolates for the women and children at the shelter. I used all my best adjectives to draw a picture for her of the girls standing at the door, chocolate purchases clutched proudly in hand, looks of earnest importance on their little faces while they went through the ID process to gain entrance and then presented their gifts to the woman who opened the door.
   As I talked, I could see her shoulders relaxing. She began to look more composed, and I saw that the tears had retreated. Then she stood up and thanked me for spending the time with her. "Thank you, thank you," she said," for letting me sit here with you. I needed someone to be with." Then she turned and walked away. As I watched her make her way past the coffee counter, and down the hall, I realized we hadn't even given each other our first names. That wasn't what was needed. She had needed a momentary haven from the weight that was pressing down on her, whatever it was. She had needed a space in which she could hide while she collected herself again, before she went back to confront whatever awaited her. I had needed to give that to her.
   Whoever you are, my friend, wherever you are, I hope that life is treating you more gently today.