THE MULBERRY BUSH

A crowd is gathering around the white haired lady sitting on the curb. The heavy summer storm has passed. Rain water runs rapidly from the gutter to the sewer. Empty cigarette packs, note paper, candy wrappers float like rafts to the sea. Black tie oxfords sit side by side close to the lady. Her skirt is hiked up only high enough to keep it dry. Bare feet wiggle, toes rejoice at the coolness of the water.

I hear whispers, see women of various ages pointing at the goofus sitting on the curb. She is oblivious, recites softly ‘Mary had a little lamb’, ‘Jack be nimble.’ The memories pour out like sparkling burgundy wine.

There is no parking on the right side of Charles Street today so she is fairly safe. But delivery trucks don’t park. They merely ‘stop’. A special delivery brown UPS car barely misses her but the wheels throw water over her face and hair. From a small plastic bag she removes a man sized white handkerchief, dries herself, turns to the Lookie Loos. ‘Great! Now I have had my morning shower.’

In no hurry, I stay a few minutes longer than those who will go home and tell their husbands about the ‘nut’ in the gutter. Suitably dry, she puts on knee high nylon hose, her shoes and struggles to tie the laces.‘May I do that for you?’ I ask. What a sweet, soft, warm ‘Yes, thank you,’ I receive. My hand reaches out to help her stand. Her grip almost pulls me into the gutter. ‘There’s a Starbucks on the other side of the street. Would you like to have a steaming hot coffee with me? I usually get their cinnamon pecan brioche that is big enough for us to share?’‘Chahmed,’ I reply. We exchange names, shake hands, but make no move towards Starbucks.

The old lady’s name is Liz, ‘like Lizzie Borden,’ she adds. I must look wild. ‘Liz, that was my mother’s name and she always did what you just did when she met someone new, ‘like Lizzie Borden.’ ‘My name is Helen. Like Helen of Troy.’ It’s Liz’s turn to be stunned. ‘Helen, my daughter was named Helen, Helen of Troy, but she died in a car accident when she was 12.’ This is awesome. We don’t even try to talk as we walk to the corner traffic light and cross for our treat.

‘Let’s recite our childhood poems. I’ll go first, then you do one,’ Liz suggests and begins before I acquiesce ‘Little Boy Blue come.’ I interrupt, ‘My turn. Jack and Jill went.’ We end each others and laugh like kids. The coffee, the brioche, are delicious. Liz’s company special. I don’t want it to end yet.

‘Momma, will you come to my house for Thanksgiving, meet my family? You’ll have to save some room for my 3" home made luscious pumpkin pie. Please come.’

‘I’d be chahmed,’ Liz answers. ‘I think god has sent us to each other today. I can’t help but think that my Helen would be about your age now. ‘Yes, I’ll come and bring my special roast potatoes with lots of browned onions. Helen loved those.’

‘Bring plenty. I adore them too!’