Memory Lane

I didn't take strolls down Memory Lane very often, and I've never been on one by myself. Usually, I would have someone with me, friends, family, children, my dear husband. But now that my time is ticking down to days, hours, or even minutes. I decided to take the trip.

My nurse was highly concerned when I told her what I wanted to do. Worried that I wouldn't make it back. She understood my wish, however, and arranged for a bus (the only thing big enough for my wheelchair) to come and take me to Memory Lane, and back again.

The bus ride was long and empty. No one was taking a bus this late on Christmas Eve, everyone was at home, with family, dreaming of sugarplums. My remaining family had offered to come here for Christmas. But I told them that it would be okay, money tight enough as it is, and they shouldn't spend it to fly across the country just to see an old lady on Christmas. (Plus I wasn't sure I would even make it that far).

"This is it! Memory Lane. Need me to walk you through?" The bus driver asked. He was a young gentleman, about 20 - the same age as my youngest great-grandson- with gentle blue eyes, and brown hair that parted neatly between his uninformed hat. He stood from his seat, to unhook my wheelchair from the ground.

"No thank you, dearie. I feel like I need to take this stroll alone. Would you mind waiting for me at the other side of the lane though? I don't know if I'll have the strength-" I took a shuddering breath. "the strength to walk back here when I get to the other side."

"Of course ma'am. But allow me to at least walk you to the gate?" the bus driver offered.

"Yes, yes, that would be wonderful. Thank you," I squinted at the spot where his name tag should be, but couldn't make out the name.

"Timothy Hughes ma'am. Tim for short."

 "Thank you, Timothy," I said.

"Please, call me Tim, ma'am."

"As long has you stop calling me ma'am, and start calling me by my name. Anna."

"Of course Anna. Here we go, off to go on a stroll down Memory Lane." Tim started energetically, as he pushed me down the bus' ramp. "Take your time, I'm in no rush."

"Oh, I won't be long. I've been here many times lately. It's the elderly's favorite way to pass time you know." I told the young man and winked. Tim laughed, and I joined him. It felt good to make someone laugh. Tim stopped when we reached the entrance.

"Here you are. I'll meet you on the other side." Tim said and left me by myself.

I looked at the entrance to Memory Lane, a golden, slightly rusted, archway. Despite the dark, and my blurred vision, I could still make out the words "Memory Lane" written in fancy white cursive on top of the arch. I took a deep breath and rolled my wheelchair under the archway.

On either side of me, there was a garden full of every flower possible. The roses, water lilies, orchids, and sunflowers stood out the most. But the one that caught my eye the most, was the smallest flowers in the bunch. They were a dusky purple, under the lamp lights, that lined the street. I bent down and picked a few before I started my travels. I like I used to when I was a little kid, weaved them into a flower crown. I took a deep breath, taking in the smell of flowers, with a hint of oncoming snow.

I lowered my wheelchair, and lowered my right hand so that it was grazing the flowers, and started to roll my chair forward, feeling the softness of each petal, and letting the sound of crickets, the wind, and my own breathing, lull me into thinking of my life. The flashes of my memory came slowly, like a fogged mirror, that you have to wipe away the condensation before you can see yourself clearly.