At that moment the years rolled backwards. I remembered the musty church parlor where Mrs. Lewis had hugged us children as we straggled in, one by one.
“I’m glad you came,” she said, while leading me into the small living room, stuffed with old pictures, a huge oversize couch and a window box of blooming petunia. They kept her company, she said, talking to them like children.
Her face lighted with the happiness of visiting. Most of her friends had died. She didn’t get out anymore. She had taken to sleeping on the couch since John passed away three years ago.
I had many errands to run. I had to get to the bank, the post office and some other stops. But suddenly all of these seemed unimportant. The need is here, I thought. Slowly, arm in arm, we moved to the kitchen. Mrs. Lewis filled the kettle.
What was that line I remembered – something about not what we give but what we share? “Shall we have crab apple jelly, Mrs. Lewis,” I asked. “Oh yes,” she said happily, producing a box of crackers.
Mrs. Lewis showed me where to put John’s chair, right beside hers. We sat down and she took my hand. “Would you say grace?” she whispered. “It’s so good to eat together.” As best I could, I choked a blessing from deep within my heart.
