"Listening and lifting a simple hand is one of the greatest pleasures of humans. Some people see with their hearts-as my husband did that day in the grocery store. She remains a reminder that as we rush to the needs of others in mourning, we can feed our souls."
In the Fall of 2001, I had settled living into life in South Florida, working as a manager of a remodeling company based in Hollywood. I had moved to Florida in 1996 to pursue a career in acting and films. That became more of a hobby, after I involved myself in Real Estate. The need to putting food on the table and pay off student loan debt required a sure paying occupation. I had put my music and acting on part time status.
On November 1st of that year, I was in the Winn Dixie grocery store in Hallandale with my husband-another surprise in life that came along with my new locale and occupation.. As we stood in a rather long line of weekend food shoppers, I had my calculator out, re-assessing our food take versus our budget. Suddenly my husband whispered, “Why don’t we ask her if she needs a ride?”
Looking up over my glasses, confused, I asked “Who??”. He motioned over to a dark haired woman with olive toned skin, whose face was captured by wistfulness. She was dressed in black and was perhaps in her late fifties. In her arms she juggled two plants, one red and one white. Even though her strong frame seemed capable of lifting, she seemed off balance. Moving ahead carefully, she pushed through the automatic exit door.
I told my husband not to stare at her. She appeared self-sufficient. I went on about how little gestures could seem like stalking maneuvers to women who are alone. “We shouldn’t bother her. She probably had a car or a driver, I continued. As we checked out through the line and looked through the plate glass window, I saw her black form struggle with the load of plants. She could barely seeing straight ahead of her. Stopping in the lot twice, she’d juggle the plants, then her sunglasses.
As we walked to our van, my husband continued his comment. “I don’t think she has a car. Shouldn’t we just give her a ride, !” I waved my husband off again, “Listen, Just wait a minute.” As I could see, she had just reached the end of the parking lot which led towards the beach side. All the while, stopping to wipe her brow and dust off her plants.
As my husband loaded our van, I asked him to drive over the exit near where the woman was. I promised I would make the offer and tell her that we lived quite close. If she refused, no harm done, we drive away.
We reached a parking space near the path she walked, and we parked. I walked over to her and stood there, pushing aside some petals of the plant to address her. “Excuse me, Miss, do you need help getting home? We live very close, and can offer you a ride if you need it."
She looked at me and the smile was a bit slow, but it came. “Well, thank you so much,” she said. "I just live a few blocks towards the beach.” “Then we are right over here,” I replied, pointing to our rough and tumble VW van. “We repair houses so we don’t have a Cadillac, sorry. But there’s plenty of room for you.” I introduced her to my husband and decision was made to allow her to ride up front in passenger seat. She held fast to the plants.
We travelled the five blocks, and realized this might have been an exhausting walk for someone else. She said she walked many places that were safe from her townhouse, but today, the walking had been more difficult.
In the few minutes of travel, we asked few common questions, and she was eager to talk. I asked her if she was planning a family gathering for Thanksgiving, and that the plants would make a lovely centerpiece. “Do you celebrate early?” There was a moment of silence, and she said “This is for my son’s altar at home for the Dia de los Meertos. I am the glad they had the red plants early, they were his favorites. Another pause followed those words. Then “I lost him in New York City, last month.”
I spoke , embarrassed. “I am so sorry”. Miriam touched the petals of the plant. “He called me that morning, and told me not to worry. There were New York City Police and fire department on the ground, working their way up . He was in his office on the 62nd floor. Tower 2. The last thing I heard was a booming sound of fire and glass breaking . He said “Oh God,Mom.” Another block driven as Miriam gave my husband instructions to turn. “Then “she said, “It was silent. He was gone. Turn in here.”
We had pulled up in front of a steel gate before a plush townhouse. As we assisted her to get her groceries inside, she couldn’t stop thanking us.“How much can I give you?
How much!?”
My husband said, “Nothing. We don’t need anything.” She then attempted to pass me some money, I just shook my head and turned it away. As Miriam put her purse away, she insisted on knowing what our favorite foods were.
I went on about crab legs and lobster. My husband went on about wild salmon. I must have shot off a number of special foods that would be luxury for me. It came out in a rush, and we realized just how much certain food felt like a luxury when you couldn’t afford them more than once a month.
As we were leaving she asked, “You must come to dinner next week. Which night is good?”
How could we pass that up?. Her townhouse was exclusive and we could only imagine the sumptuous offerings to be enjoyed. We accepted her offer, for the next Wednesday night available.
On the way home with our own groceries, my husband and I talked very little. The closest personal encounter we had to the 9/11 tragedy was learning that one of the suicide fliers had lived only three blocks from us. We had never met this person, but had stories from the neighbor.
That following Wednesday, we dressed in as high style as our limited closets would allow, and went to enjoy our dinner at Miriam’s. She opened the door and the scent of Jasmine rained down on us.
There were more pictures of her son , proudly displayed, in the dining room, where an altar had been arranged. The flower plants punctuated each side like a bookend. “There he has the white one for my mourning and the red one for his favorite. Enrico loved Thanksgiving and Christmas” she said as she hooked her arm in mine and led me to the table. It held a buffet of the most delicious crab legs, shrimp and salmon steaks, fresh and cooked vegetables and special homemade breads and rolls.
“This is so much, Miriam, so wonderful, maybe too much!” I said.
She smiled as she brought my husband the coffee he requested. “When God sends you angels –then you must feed them right!”
As we ate, Miriam’s curiosity poured out. “How long have you been married? How did you two meet?, Any children?”, “What kind of customers do you have? Do you travel?”
She shared that her granddaughter worked for Disney, and I told her about my acting and music background and a CD I had recently completed with some musical friends.
The conversation took a lively tone as Miriam reported her granddaughter booked the acts for the resort, and that she had connections in the music business. She asked if I minded bringing by my music CD. She would like to hear it and maybe make a connection for me.
When she caught me looking at pictures of her son, she went sombre again, “It will be a lifetime of wondering why he died before me. No child should die before their parents. He had so much left to give” She sipped her tea. “Every year now, around the holidays, I will dress this house in colors of mourning and love.”
Conversation shifted to Miriam’s life and former work, as a seamstress, many years before. When we left her place, we were full of wonderful food and the warmth of new friendship. We’d been blessed by the goodwill of a grieving mother, who paused to reward strangers that had merely offered her a ride home.
Listening and lifting a simple hand is one of the greatest pleasures of humans. Some people see with their hearts- as my husband did in the grocery store. The calls are all around- silent and yearning. Although we saw Miriam only a few more times before we left the state we continued to talk on the phone every week for a few years. She remains a reminder that as we rush to the needs of others in mourning, we can feed our souls.
Diane Bostick, written 8/2/2017