The Last Warm Day

On the last warm day, just before the sunset, I cross paths with the elderly grandmother who lives in the house next door. We stand together in the street and, like always, she speaks to me in Chinese and I speak to her in English.

Her voice blends with the sound of bird wings fluttering overhead, the sound of the wind sweeping fallen yellow leaves across the black rooftops. Strands of her gray hair glinting in the fading daylight. Faint wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. After awhile her voice grows quiet, gradually tapering away until she is completely silent. She looks at me for a long moment, then reaches out and gently places her hand on my cheek. Her soft, warm palm pressed against my jaw line, her fingertips grazing my ear. She says goodbye to me in Chinese before continuing her walk along our street.

And I will remember this. When all of the leaves have blown away and the colors of autumn have evaporated into the bleakness of winter. When the storm clouds and the cold, drizzling rain stifle the sunlight. When my heart grows heavy, like it always does, under the weight of dark, icy skies.

I will remember this day, the last warm day, just before the sunset. When the wind brushed across my shoulders and my neighbor placed her soft palm on my cheek. I will remember how the weight of my heart lifted then, even if for just a moment. A moment can make all the difference. And this moment, this small gesture of genuine kindness, is a little twinkling light I will carry through the gray days and long, dark nights of winter. 



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