Free When I Was Young and In My Prime by Alayna Munce Page A

completely gone and then I’d just manage to fish him back in, he was off again, and, well, I couldn’t help myself; I just reached the end of my rope. I sat up straight and said, Open your curtains. Just like that. What? he said from far away. Open your curtains. You’re in the dark, aren’t you? I said. How did you know? he said, closer now. Just a guess, I said. Now what do you say you go and open your curtains and let in a little light. It’s a beautiful day out, and we’re getting nowhere in the dark, I told him, and he said, I’m in a basement apartment, lady. Just like that. Well, for Pete’s sake there still must be windows, I said, and he said, Yeah but they’re all dirty. Just like a child. Well there’s got to be a way to get some light in there, I said, and he said, I guess if I open the door to the outside it would give me some light. And I said, You go and do that now, but don’t hang up. Come back and talk to me again as soon as you’re done. Okay, he said, and I’ll tell you I held my breath the whole time he was gone. Finally he came back and picked up the phone and I let out my breath and I could hear him breathing too. After a while I said, Hi. Hi, he said, and he started to weep. There, there, I kept saying. There, there.  
    Well, in any case, apart from a few exceptions I’d say a good number of the callers are just plain lonely, and I don’t mind chatting with them, or rather, letting them chat to me. I’ve occasionally even caught myself thinking wouldn’t it be nice to have someone I could call—anonymously, you know—and never have to face the person and just be able to pour my heart out. Though I certainly don’t let myself indulge that thought for very long. I’m not that sort of person and when you get right down to it, if you ask me, you take a risk letting yourself go like that—there’s no telling whether you’re going to be able to get yourself back. It’s a slippery slope, as they say. Not that I blame the callers exactly. They’re mostly all a little touched. But I do find myself impatient from time to time as a woman goes on and on about her problems and I get an urge to just interrupt, you know, just put an end to her nonsense. Tell her to just buck up. Just dig deep dear, I’d like to say. You just need to decide. Your baby is crying, I can hear it. Stop talking about yourself, hang up the phone and go to your child. Just remember there’s always somebody worse off than you are, that’s what I say. Or, at least, that’s what I’d like to say, sometimes.

Lois King, UCW, on the tea-pouring incident

    Once, before there was any kind of diagnosis, before even any kind of alarm—although who knows what she felt, she never said and, to be honest, it didn’t occur to me to ask her until it was too late and she couldn’t have said even if she’d wanted to, though I don’t suppose she’d have said much, she never was one to complain—well anyway, she was pouring tea, looking right at the cup and spout, her one hand on the lid and, well, she just kept pouring. It was a UCW meeting, I seem to remember. She was chairing of course, but I don’t believe she was talking. In fact, I don’t think anyone was talking at the time. Or, if they were, they stopped as soon as the cup began to overflow. In fact, I seem to remember it felt like a chain reaction of sorts. The cup filling and beginning to brim, and the hush in the room rising in the same way. I remember thinking it looked lovely, actually, a kind of amber fountain, spilling over the edges of the cup into the saucer, then over the saucer into the tray, steaming. I remember thinking, if only the cup handle weren’t there it would look so symmetrical. Now doesn’t that just take the cake? You see, the curious thing was that we all just sat there watching her pour and pour until