I watch the old woman next door…

I watch the old woman next door. I can’t help it. She has no curtains and as I sit with my coffee, my eyes are drawn to her as she hobbles around her kitchen each morning, staggering with pain, holding her back as she tries to walk, sometimes bent in half with the effort.
I don’t want to watch her, but it’s impossible to look away.
She was young not long ago, not alone, and she raised a family.
Little ones she rocked to sleep, diapers she changed, clothes she washed, shopping for teenagers, parent’s meetings and thousands of meals cooked.
A husband who had dinner on the table every night, years of waiting on people, taking care of people, loving people, and now she’s alone.
Walking is such an effort for her, it hurts me to watch. It takes her hours before she can straighten up.
I don’t know how to help  her.
She’s very stubborn.
She won’t use a cane or a walker. She won’t go to the doctor to see if they can fix her back because she doesn’t want anymore surgeries, she’s had so many.
Every morning she just prays that the pain is not going to last, and by the time the mail comes, she’s usually standing tall, limping a little, but standing tall, and she praises God.
That’s her morning.
I watch the old woman next door. I can’t help it.

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