I used to wake up at 5 am on Sunday mornings. Goldie would wait for me at Starbucks, just before they opened the store. She’d stand there with her newspaper in hand, her gray, loose clothes and gray-blonde hair frizzing in the chilly air. I don’t remember if we ever hugged hello. I remember that I felt loved.
Goldie would tell me stories. She had a few grandkids in California. One of them was a baker. Goldie was so proud; I wanted her to be that proud of me. She’d talk about her special education students at the public school. Every time she spoke about them, she seemed to hurt, yet she wouldn’t give up her job for the world. Goldie had been teaching for at least 40 years. In her spare time, she took art classes at the local college. At 72 years old, Goldie was allowed to attend for free.
She had lived through so much. Little bits and pieces stick out in my mind. She left her family in New York because they were religious. She didn’t want to be. She mentioned a few exes but rarely spoke much about them. I was curious to know more but never dared to ask. I wondered if she was sad; did she regret being estranged from her family? Did she wish she never got divorced? Goldie sat on mountains of potential stories that I never got to hear.
We didn’t stay in touch. I moved out of my house and to a new country. And then another few. Every time I flew back home, I thought of knocking on her door, saying hello. I didn’t and I don’t know why. I felt like a different person than the past. Was Goldie still my friend if I wasn’t a child anymore?
There’s a part of me that wants to keep her in my childhood. I remember once thinking that Goldie lived a sad life. Just her and her grown son in her house; where were all the people from the past? Did she miss family, her ex or her old friends? Did she want to hear from them? Did she want them back?
Maybe I don’t knock on her door for the same reasons she lived the way she did. Sometimes, there’s little point in trying to keep someone around forever. Few things, few people last that long. But I call my own bullshit when my mind agrees with this reasoning. I think, really, that I’m scared. Because of distance, she doesn’t love me anymore. Maybe she never did.
Sometimes I imagine myself visiting home and seeing her. I’d sit on her couch, eat clementines and be 12 years old again. She’d ask what I want to be when I grow up, and I’d tell her “I am grown up”. Goldie would probably smile. She would be proud of me.
I don’t know where the fear comes from. She gave me so much. Of course she’ll still love me. But I don’t know what I gave her? Some company some days? If I didn’t wake up in time for Starbucks, I’d come to her house on Saturday afternoons. I loved her attention and all the questions she answered about life. I didn’t understand half of what she said; I didn’t understand the art or the problems in the public schools, or why she had a speaker system in her house the size of a small couch. But I loved hearing her talk. When I think about it, that must have been enough.
I’m going back to Milwaukee tomorrow. Maybe I’ll stop by Starbucks at 5 am.