In London on New Years’ Day, we were walking through Trafalgar Square. Beside the crosswalk that spans over to St Martins, a knot people surrounded a leg jutting out at a wrong angle. When we got closer, we saw a white-haired lady who had fallen, surrounded by people trying to help her up. She wailed, high-pitched and animal, the kind of sound no one would make on purpose, and came almost to standing. Thomas and I stood there floppily, like people do in an emergency, our uselessness rendered grandiose and apparent. Somehow Thomas managed to recall the British number for an ambulance (probably something he knew from a Dr. Who episode), and called it. Over the course of the phone call we learned that the women was named Jacqueline, she was 70 years old, she had had a knee replacement last year, she had fallen on her hip and was in a great deal of pain, she lived in Guildford. The ambulance dispatcher hung up and we waited. Jacqueline was bright and alert and gorgeous, the kind of women we all hope we’ll get to be when we’re old, like a character being played by Judi Dench. She cracked jokes in a controlled, charming way. She and the woman on her left, Celia, her friend and neighbor, had come into London to go to a concert at St. Martin’s. It was very cold. Celia smiled at everything, asked our names, thanked us profusely, but never laughed once. Eventually the ambulance arrived. We asked how we could get in touch and Celia gave us her number. When we called the next day, Celia had stayed up all night while Jacqueline went into surgery for a broken hip. Chatty in the hospital-room way of someone who hasn’t had a normal conversation in too long, she explained that she and Jacqueline’s husbands had both passed away a few years ago, and so now they had each other. They had ended up together, each other’s final person, spending the rest of their lives together.
Forever
Forever
Forever
In London on New Years’ Day, we were walking through Trafalgar Square. Beside the crosswalk that spans over to St Martins, a knot people surrounded a leg jutting out at a wrong angle. When we got closer, we saw a white-haired lady who had fallen, surrounded by people trying to help her up. She wailed, high-pitched and animal, the kind of sound no one would make on purpose, and came almost to standing. Thomas and I stood there floppily, like people do in an emergency, our uselessness rendered grandiose and apparent. Somehow Thomas managed to recall the British number for an ambulance (probably something he knew from a Dr. Who episode), and called it. Over the course of the phone call we learned that the women was named Jacqueline, she was 70 years old, she had had a knee replacement last year, she had fallen on her hip and was in a great deal of pain, she lived in Guildford. The ambulance dispatcher hung up and we waited. Jacqueline was bright and alert and gorgeous, the kind of women we all hope we’ll get to be when we’re old, like a character being played by Judi Dench. She cracked jokes in a controlled, charming way. She and the woman on her left, Celia, her friend and neighbor, had come into London to go to a concert at St. Martin’s. It was very cold. Celia smiled at everything, asked our names, thanked us profusely, but never laughed once. Eventually the ambulance arrived. We asked how we could get in touch and Celia gave us her number. When we called the next day, Celia had stayed up all night while Jacqueline went into surgery for a broken hip. Chatty in the hospital-room way of someone who hasn’t had a normal conversation in too long, she explained that she and Jacqueline’s husbands had both passed away a few years ago, and so now they had each other. They had ended up together, each other’s final person, spending the rest of their lives together.