THE STARTING GATE

By

Michael Edwin Q.

Plain and simple, this is my blatant and bias attempt to lift my sister, Nancy, on high. Dad used to said, “You can always tell the winners at the starting gate.” This is an account of my sister at the starting gate – the first but not the last time I was to see her shine.

I was fifteen years old, that would make my brother, Gerard, twelve; Nancy was two year my junior. Gerard and I walked home together from school that day. As we approached our brownstone apartment building, we stopped and stood shocked to find our great-grandmother, Angelina, sitting on the top step of the cold gray stone stoop. It was deep winter and she wore neither coat nor sweater.

“Grandma, what are you doing sitting our here?” I asked.

She looked up at me, sadly; tears were forming in her eyes. Through her thick Italian accent, she whimpered to me, “I want to go home.”

“But, Grandma, you are home.”

Again she pleaded, “I want to go home.”

My brother and I tried in vain to persuade her to come inside.

“Why are you doing this to me?” she sobbed. “Please, call a taxi to take me home.”

It began to snow; no place for a ninety-five year old woman dressed in only a housedress and apron to be. I took off my coat and placed it over her shoulders.

She looked at the coat, and then up at me, “Who are you?”

“Don’t you recognize me, Grandma? It’s me, Mickey. And this here’s Gerard. Don’t you remember?”

She looked at both of us; she showed no sign of recognition.

“Who are you? Why are you doing this to me? Call a taxi…I want to go home!”

I felt frustrated, helpless, and heartbroken all at the same time. The flood of emotion left me useless. Just then, Nancy came walking up; Gerard ran to her and explained the state of affairs. She stood at the bottom of the stairs, thinking. Then she walked up the stairs and sat down. The old woman looked at her sorrowfully. Nancy took her hand and smiled.

“Grandma, wasn’t that the longest taxi ride ever? I thought we’d never get home,” said Nancy. “All that riding’s made me hunger, and it’s so cold out here. Why don’t we go upstairs? There’s some leftover baked ziti; do you like baked ziti?”

“Yeah, sure…and wine…can we have some wine?” ask the old woman, a smile rising on her face.

“Only a small glass, Grandma,” said my sister. “And if you’re good, we can have ice-cream later.”

My brother and I watched in awe as the two entered the building.

It was two years later that our great-grandmother passed away; and it was my sister and mother, at her bedside, helping her every step of the way. Ten years later, our mother fell ill; and it was Nancy who stayed vigilant over her till she passed.

Today, she is a grown woman with a family of her own. And each day she gives of herself to the aged, sickly, and dieing as a Hospice worker. She honestly is one of my heroes. But then, she has always been; even at the starting gate.   

END