Day 136 Short Story #4

*This is by Grace

Hello, My Name is... Olga

Look at where we are.

I lift your delicate, vein-webbed hand and kiss it. Your chest rises and falls in short, staggered, artificial breaths. Your lungs are feigning life. But false life is better than no life at all, right?

Your hands are as cold as the day that I met you. I close my eyes and try to summon the memories.

You were 19, a waitress at a hip new diner on 71^st street. I was 25, unemployed, and pissed off at the economy. I sat down in the red leather booth to read the newspaper, like I had done every morning for the past five years. Usually, Margaret the Waitress would come to take my order- and we would wink and pretend we weren’t in love- but had been killed by some prison fugitive two months earlier and I was left on my own, unloved. But that day was different because a new waitress took her place, and that was you. You were built like any other waitress, all slender and gorgeous; you had blonde Shirley Temple curls and wide, gray eyes. The only difference was your thick accent that I later learned was Ukrainian. You didn’t lug around the ordinary American-waitress attitude of “Whad’ya want today, hon?” and “Ya got that right, doll-face.” Your words were smooth and low, almost like you really were worried about whether or not we got the right order. Because you were so new, you didn’t have one of those low-cut short-skirt red uniforms- with the name embroidered on the chest- that the other waitresses had. Instead, you chose to wear these pastel-colored sundresses with a “Hello, my name is…” tag with the word “Olga” scribbled in thin blue curlicue letters. You gave me your honest opinion about what I should order and where the best duck ponds were and what the meaning of life is. You amazed me.

That day that I met you, we were engaged in a deep conversation about the true meaning of freedom, when you grabbed my hands and looked me straight in the eyes. “Do not ever lose your sight of who you are truly are.” You advised me in your thick-as-honey Ukrainian accent. “It is very hard for a spirit to live inside of a person dey do not even know.” Your hands were cold. Your smile was warm. You looked so beautiful in your sky-blue sundress and orange scarf. It was the most cliché of clichés: love at first sight.

We were engaged a month after the day I met you, then married eleven months later. We had six children. Six children in twelve years. I can’t believe you endured that.

We have been married for fifty-three years. Now look at where we are, my sweet Olga. We are in the starch-white sterilized hospital all decorated with grim educated faces and wailing women being faced with the reality of death. I am here, holding your hand, because I love you. Because you are my Olga. The 19-year-old immigrant from Ukraine who worked at the new hip diner on 71^st street and wore pastel sundresses with “Hello, my name is…” tags with the words “Olga” scribbled in thin blue curlicue letters.