I was already on the slope down the little hill not far from where I live that early morning when I met her. At first, I didn’t pay much notice to the figure ahead of me, but then her ataxic gait caught my attention. In her right hand was a loaf of bread in a see-through bag clutched tightly at the top with her fingers. Hanging from her shoulder down to her shin was a coloured flower robe underneath which was a plain dress. 

On her feet were grey faux fur slippers; it was apparent she wasn’t on a morning walk like most people jogging past. She was in some kind of discomfort as she dragged herself. From time to time, she would rest her slender body against the metal frame that separated and lined the street. That morning, the wind was ravaging. The old lady’s flowered robe flapped around her under the strong wind. Interchangeably, she clutched her hands around the metal frame and the loaf of bread. The picture she painted was pitiful. She shivered. The wetness of the morning rain made her wet grey hair clinged to her face, neck and head.

I shortened my pace when I got closer to her. Something about the way she looked didn’t settle in well with me. Through the drizzling rain and the whooshing sounds of the wind, I could hear the rattling sound of her keys somewhere within her clothing.

“Do you need help?”. I asked. She looked at me with piercing eyes filled with great confusion and replied, “Where is Duarte Place? Do you know where Duarte Place is?”. I intruded; “Is that where you live?’. She answered with, “Duarte Place?”.