Villager S often yells, at the cats who are procreating at an alarming rate, at the little dog which her kids bought and which she cannot stand, at her husband who she doesn’t like very much either or at life in general.
When I open the door to investigate, because it does sound an unusual type of yelling, Villager S is standing next to my house, in tears now she’s seen I’ve opened the door.
I can’t quite make out what she’s saying, but I walk up to her and tell her things will be ok, put my arm around her shoulder and hug her, because whatever is the matter, she could do with a hug. “Tell me what happened.”
In between sobs I can make out she’s locked herself out again. This has happened before. And her husband, who’s only got one leg and can’t get up on his own is stuck indoors.
It’s tricky to get through the bedroom window, it isn’t that high up but there is a sloped corrugated roof I have to climb on first, and if I’d slide off it and fall, it would surely hurt and there’s nothing to hold on to. The window doesn’t open at first and panic sets in when I’m worried I lose my footing, but I push again and it opens. I haul myself up and jump into the bedroom, go to the front door and open it.
Villager S’s thanks Jesus and God and the heaven above and declares me a Saint. She kisses and hugs me and cries and tells me what a bitch life is because she’s old and she’s nearly at the end.
She’s right. Life is a bitch. I’ll be where she is one day. Locking myself out and having to shout for others to help me because I can’t climb through the window myself any longer.
And that scares me.
So I let her hug me a bit longer.