She’s the absolute picture of grief: petite, aged, black coat draped across her torso and fingers pressed against her lips as she looks blankly towards the curtained window.
“Are you alright?”
She shakes her head no, the tears springing up immediately. She opens up the slim volume in front of her– Psalms and Proverbs, maybe a few other books as well- and shows me a picture of a lovely woman, dyed blond hair, in her forties.
“My daughter,” she says, in an accented voice, “She’s had a five year battle with cancer.”
I’ve started rubbing her shoulder almost immediately. Her sweater is soft, and I try to make my eyes sympathetic.
“She was only forty-seven. Too young…what’s your name?”