Soup

 

I tell Ma that I’m feeling old, that I think I might finally be

an old woman.

I say it to say something.

Ma says nothing.

I imagine it’s hard for Ma to think of me as an old woman as

that would mean that she would be very old.

And quite understandably she doesn’t like the idea of being a

very old woman because this is not something she ever had

in mind for herself.

But we cannot get away from it. The fact of her being a very

old woman.

I know how old she is because every time I look at her, I

think of how I’ll kiss her closed eyes and be among those to

watch her body as it’s lowered into the ground.

Even though in reality that may not be what happens

because Ma might well have her own plans which have yet to

be revealed. And I think I’m happy to not press Ma for what

it is she wants in the circumstances.

You might think, given where we are, that every day would

be precious but we are beyond that.

That is how old she is.

But there’s another woman who is even older than Ma, who

is in fact the oldest woman in the world, who lives in Japan

and no, she doesn’t want to carry the flame at the Olympic

Opening Ceremony. Let some other old woman do it, she

says, tucking into her miso soup with a hunger that is both

delicate and voracious.

Is that her secret, I wonder.

This is all I want, the old woman says, nodding at her soup,

slurping one spoonful after another.

But I don’t believe her.

I think she says this because she is the oldest woman alive

and can say whatever she likes.

I think what she really wants is to die but to say that would

be a terrible shame.

For us, I mean.

We love that we have found someone we can call the oldest

woman alive.

We love that all she wants is to eat soup.

We find her frugality charming.

But maybe what she wants is to confound us with her

apparent lack of desire. Maybe she’s had enough of our

attention and silliness, our endless talk of the flame.

But it doesn’t matter what she wants as live on is what she

does, eating soup and avoiding the telephone.

Like Ma.

I like to rub Ma’s feet. The toes bunch together and curl

under slightly. I take one foot and with my thumb press

gently along the white tendons that splay out beneath the

skin like brief, bony rays of light.

Sometimes I want to ask Ma if things matter less the older

you get, but know I won’t get a straight answer.

We sit and watch the birds who have taken the place of our

feelings.

Every morning they hop here and there looking for food.

Once a bird flew straight at our window.

I stood and watched it lying there on the ground.

Next time I looked it was gone.

More than anything I don’t want her to be afraid.

I stand up and say: Time for soup!

Our meals have become very regular and important and

what we eat has become one of the things Ma seems happy

to talk about. We talk about what we’re going to have, what

we’re having while we’re having it and then afterwards, what

it was we had. Each meal contains a past, present and a

future so that we can for a while forget about other things.

I think there is still love between me and Ma but we are so

easily distracted by the birds.

And the soup she likes that I make.

I hold up a plastic bag and say:

Look Ma, they’re selling misshapen carrots in a bag with an

exclamation mark – maybe so we don’t take them too

seriously!

Ma looks at me holding the bag.

She has become extremely calm in the face of all things.

I wonder if this will last.

I wonder if she might be able to tell me what she’s really

feeling. I wonder if it matters. I wonder if it matters whether

the oldest woman in the world doesn’t tell the truth. Perhaps

she’s trying to tell us that in the end these things don’t matter.

That other things do, like the birds.

Once we saw a pigeon with half its wing unfeathered. All

you could see were the white stems but still it strutted

around the patio as if it didn’t know.

Ma looks out the window.

Or perhaps, I say, still holding the bag, they’re telling us we

have nothing to fear!

She might be smiling only it’s hard to tell because her face is

turned towards the birds.

I’d like to be able to say that I can’t wait to get very old but

what I think I mean is that I can’t wait for this to be over.

For Ma.

I don’t mind about the woman in Japan.

She can go on living as long as she likes, eating soup and

refusing to carry the torch.