Woman in the Metro
By Claire Roberts

aaaaA few days ago, while visiting a friend in Europe, I took the metro downtown to do some errands. It was a gorgeous but chilly autumn day outside--sunlight pouring down, crispy, clean smells in the air, leaves radiating fall colors, a few wispy clouds in the sky. Leaving the apartment, I quickly matched my pace to the briskness of the temperature to warm up a bit, and snuggled my scarf a little closer to my neck. Cold or not, I was in awe at the beauty of the day, so I decided, somewhere between setting foot on the platform and stepping into the train, to get out one stop sooner than I needed to and take advantage of the extra time outdoors.
aaaaThe metro arrived at the designated stop--a mess of dust, plastic, sparse signs nailed to plywood walls, and other construction debris--and I headed toward the exit. A few feet from the stairs, I noticed an elderly woman with fluffy white hair, dressed in a long quilted grey coat and complementary silvery velveteen scarf, sensible shoes on her feet, standing near the bottom of the stairs, looking somewhat perplexed. Standing next to her on the ground was a plaid-covered shopping trolley, which I guessed was loaded with groceries and probably too heavy for her to haul up the stairs. I stopped and asked if she'd like a hand carrying it up.

aaaaIn response, she asked me which train had just come, and which train would take her to the final stop on that particular line. It was the metro on the other side of the tracks that she needed, though the construction meant she'd have to exit the station, walk down the street to the other entrance, and go in again there. She offered a few rather stern token protests, but ultimately allowed me to carry her shopping cart up the stairs, where she again protested mildly that I should walk with her to the correct entrance. When she saw my determination, however, she gratefully accepted, and then was quick to reveal that she was, after all, 81 years old, and certain things weren't as easy now as they used to be. We set off down the street toward the metro entrance, her cart in tow behind me.
aaaaEn route she told me that her husband had died of a heart attack several years earlier, and that, within a few weeks, she'd also lost her eldest son. Her granddaughter had a new baby and didn't have time to visit much any more. Her other son never called or came by, perhaps (she guessed) influenced by his malevolent wife. And now this construction around the metro! No proper signs, entrances not clearly marked--it was so confusing, she said, even for one who'd been doing her shopping in this area and taking this same metro for years. She became so involved in relating her hardships, evidently quite wrapped in grief, that she stopped walking several times during her story, and brought a handkerchief out of her pocket to daub at her eyes and nose. For all that, she didn't sound broken or bitter, simply resigned to her circumstances, and determined to press ahead.
aaaaA few minutes later, safely deposited on the correct platform, she thanked me abundantly, smiled broadly, put her hands firmly on my shoulders, and kissed me on both cheeks. Then we bade each other farewell and bonne journée, and I took my leave of her. As I emerged again into the nippy November air, I suddenly noticed that I felt warmer than I had before.