The Old Lady Hands Shake as She Counted Pennies for Bread: What Happened Next Broke My Heart

It was a winter evening and I went to the small bakery close to my street. There was a fragrance of new-baked bread, it was warm and welcoming, a sanction against the cold wind in the street. The bakery was filled with people purchasing bread, cakes and pastries to go home. I was in queue waiting to be served when I saw her.

A bent old woman stood at the counter. Her coat was tattered and old, her scarf was faded and her shoes were worn out as though they had tread seas of trouble. In tremulous hands she held a little cloth purse. She unwrapped it lovingly and tenderly as though it contained the dearest object in the world.

She trembled in pulling out a few coins. The resonance of the pennies on the counter was near painful. A coin had rolled down, and she leaned down slowly, trying to get it up in a cumbersome manner, and the line behind her got impatient. Others sighed, and some not very quietly whispered the impatient remark, but she appeared not to hear. Her eyes were all concentrated on those few coins. The young cashier observed her with an impulse face. That is not enough, Ma’am, and he pushed the coins back toward her. His voice was direct, not kindly.

The lips of the old woman shuddered. Please, she said, very small as though she were made of paper. This is the best that I have. May I at least have the little loaf? My boy would purchase here… he liked this bread.” The cashier shook his head, however. I am sorry, rules are rules.

Those waiting in line were impatiently shoving one another and looking at their phones or the floor. Nobody said anything. The old woman, counting the coins over again to see, perhaps, that she had not counted one, as though a miracle penny would turn up. Now her hands were trembling, with cold or shame I could not decide. How small, how frail she looked standing there as the warmth of the bakery encircled her, and she had nothing to cling to.

Her eyes were shining with tears that she was struggling not to shed. I could read the burden of her age, the desolation of her bearing, the hunger of her silence which was not only the hunger of a hungry stomach but the hunger of a life in which love and tenderness had gradually given way.

I walked up unthinkingly. I put one or two bills on the counter and said, I will pay for her bread. The cashier looked over at me in disbelief, and accepted the money. He bound up the loaf, and gave it to the old woman. She stood still and her eyes were open as though she could not believe what has happened. And then slowly she turned to me.

Our eyes met and I knew what she was thanking me with in that glance. She quavered with gratitude and said, over her wrinkled cheeks, resting on her wrinkled hands, the tears rolling to her wrinkled chin, Thank you, oh, thank you, child. You do not understand how this is to me.” I smiled and aided her to carry the bread. She carried it to her bosom, as a treasure. It was really so at the time.

We came to her little apartment. The structure was ancient, the paint blistering off the walls, and the hall had the odor of dampness. She opened the door very slowly and asked me in. The flat was almost bare. She had but a small chair, a little table and an old lamp. The wall, however, which was not bare, but had a photograph in a frame on it of a smiling young man. There was the love, as well as the sorrow, in her eyes, as she said, That is my Daniel.

She laid the bread down on the table and rubbed it, caressing it, like it was some kind of animal. That will keep me two days, said she, nearly cheerfully. Then she turned to me and took my hand in both her hands. Her hands were coarse and her skin was thin and her grip was weak but emotional. She murmured: People do not see me any more. I sit, I walk, I exist, no one sees. To-day… you saw me. Bread is not as much.

I remained there a long time, hearing her talk of her childhood, her husband, her son, her little pleasures in life. She spoke of gardens, spoke of singing in church when her voice was young, of laughter that once had filled her house. Every tale was a kind of window to that life that had once been filled with love but now was silent and lonely When I went at last, she embraced me very hard. Her tears wet my coat and my eyes burned, too. It was a whisper of, God bless you. So that thou hast given me not only bread, but hopeI was awake that night thinking of Margaret. I imagined that there are lots of old folks who are quietly among us, forgotten and ignored and have heavy hearts and hungry stomachs. What I did think was that such a small thing, as making a purchase of bread, could reach out and touch a life. Since that day I vowed to myself: never to pass by a person in need without at least attempting to assist. As, there are times when, they need not always the food or the money- but just to be seen, to be remembered, to be loved even briefly.

I think of Margaret whenever I go past that bakery. I remember her shaking hands and counting pennies and her sparkling eyes when someone saw her. The world can be noisy, busy and mean. However, there are those times when kindness speaks in small ways. It speaks in the rattle of coins being changed into bills, in a hot loaf of bread shared, and a sweet smile of a caring stranger.

And I will never forget the day when an old woman with trembling hands made me realize that wealth and power are not the instruments of measuring humanity, but compassion is, the simple act of reaching out when the hands are shaking, of helping that person stand up.