“I Eloped During the Russian Revolution.”
“I eloped during the Russian Revolution,” the old woman told me, smiling. “I was 16.”
“I have so many stories to tell you.”
I was 16 myself when this woman I didn’t know reached out and took me by the arm.
But I never listened.
I was a teenager waitressing in an old folks home after school. I always waitressed the front half of the dining room and had only walked by her section once. She was pretty. I remember long, thick white hair.
One evening she grabbed my elbow and asked me if I was a cheerleader.
“No,” I told her proudly. I was close-minded and insecure, a wannabe academic. I was gravely offended by the question, believing at the time that one couldn’t possibly be smart and a cheerleader.
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” she warned me. “You won’t be skinny forever.”
I gaped at her and blubbered something defensive.
Back then I was completely overwhelmed with work and school. My body was just on a conveyor belt hurtling me from one obligation to the next. I always meant to visit the young Russian bride but I never did.
Her name was Barbara.
What might she have told me if I had carved out even just a half-hour? I should…