One Old Woman

Spirits abound in even the most intimate moments of love and loss.

There once was an old woman. She had not always been an old woman, but in this story she was old. The old woman was a mother, a sister, a wife and a seamstress, among other things. She liked to watch All My Children. She often won at radio bingo and other games. She usually gave her winnings away, except for the time she had won a new stainless tea kettle. This she kept, and it remained on low heat on the stove for most of the day.

When her children had been young, she had sent her husband out hunting alone. Qulittaq, kamiik, alirtiik, piniraq, aiqavak, nasak and even his belt, all made by her. Somebody sentimental would have said that he was dressed in her love and protection. She had not been sentimental, just practical. If he was warm enough, he would bring back food. He would come back himself. Practical.

When her children were grown, with families of their own, the woman would accompany her husband when he went hunting. In winter they packed up the qamutiik with everything they would need. In summer it was the boat. At camp she cut up the seal on the bedrock as the tide went down. She hung strands of bright orange, square-cut fish to dry in the wind. Her husband, whose big hands never stopped working, would make his own rope.

The old woman’s husband, with the big hands, was a large man with a mess of grey hair and beard, who probably gave a fright to strangers. But the ones who knew him, knew him as quiet, kind, skilled at whatever he put his mind to. He was not a man to waste his breath, or do stupid things that would put anyone in harm’s way. Practical, but with a deep rich laughter that filled the room. He was a good match. They worked together.

Of course, people do not live forever. It could be that the old woman had never wanted to live forever, this would have been impractical, and surely at some point in her life she must have been happy that people do not live forever. But, at the time when she lost her husband, perhaps she might have wished for just a little more time.

Later, she could not explain why she had agreed to stay home, as he went out alone one early morning. It was just a day trip after all. Just to check the fox snare, to see if there were any caribou on the way back. She had been so tired, the blanket so heavy. Why had she not insisted that he wait for one of his sons?

The storm had come up so quickly, even the town had been in whiteout. You couldn’t see from the house to the shack. It didn’t matter that they had not spoken as he left, it only mattered that he had not come back.

She sat for such a long time, with her arms crossed, perhaps with one hand on her face. Her hair was not brushed. Her kettle was not warmed. Her family members brought her food that she did not eat. They worried, because she no longer seemed to be a seamstress, or a cook, or a storyteller, among all the other things that they knew her for. She just sat for so long, that it seemed to everyone that she might follow her husband, somehow.

It was the dogs that made her stand up. Someone’s dogs were loose and running up and down her stairs. The outside porch door blew open, and the strays came in trying to grab whatever they might find. She had to throw boots at them and swear until they went away.

The next day, it must have been one of those same strays that came back: a big grey one, with round husky markings over its eyes, floppy ears and enormous paws almost like a wolf’s, sitting on the metal steps like it lived there. The old woman threw a boot at it and missed. The dog fetched the boot and brought it back to the porch. “Stupid dog,” she said throwing the boot again. She missed, but at least the dog understood it was not welcome. It trotted off with its tongue hanging out like it was smiling.

As we said, this old woman was practical. Now she set to work. She cleaned out all of her husband’s belongings. She washed the floors and the walls and the windows. She swept the stairs and even the earth around the house. She decided that every sewing project she had started and set aside, she would take up again and finish. And soon, she had lived ten years past her husband’s leaving. In ten years, the old woman grew older. This is not extraordinary. But what did she do in ten years? She taught her grandchildren and other people’s grandchildren how to sew. She made beautiful kamiit that young women wore and other young women admired. She fed whoever was hungry. She sang and even danced at the Christmas games. She won many bingo games. She told stories and stories and more stories. And when her eyes were giving out, and her fingers were so bent that she had finally put her sewing needles aside, she knew, and everyone knew, that she had done enough.

The old woman was content, and so, late in the night, when she had half fallen asleep on the couch, and the stray dogs came running up and down the steps, instead of throwing boots at them, she threw the bones from the leftover caribou stew. Most of the dogs went running off, bones between their teeth, but one grey one who had not got any bones, stayed. It put its head to the side and raised one large paw like it was asking for its share. Here then, said the old woman. Stupid dog. And the dog followed her in to where she would dig another bone out of the pot.

And now, as she lifted the ladle out of the pot, the old woman was suddenly so tired that she felt the weight of all her clothing trying to pull her to the ground. The little earrings her daughter had made felt like boulders tugging at her ears. She dropped the bone on the floor and stumbled into the living room. She thought that just a little sleep on the couch would make her feel different, so she lay down again and closed her eyes.

The dog never took the bone she had dug out of the pot; just as if it lived there, it took up a spot on the end of the couch and curled up at her feet.

Instead of falling into a heavy slumber however, after a long moment of quiet, the old woman suddenly snapped her eyes open. In the direction of her feet and in a very practical tone she said, “I should have known.”

And here, the big grey dog, with the circles over its eyes, the floppy ears, and the enormous paws, let out a friendly bark that rolled into a deep rich laughter that filled the room.

Most of the dogs went running off, bones between their teeth, but one grey one who had not got any bones, stayed. It put its head to the side and raised one large paw like it was asking for its share.