ash wednesday

let's have a story, shall we...

She was running late, 

again.

She was always late…

And she hated being late, 

the stares and sighs…

She had asked to get off of her shift early. 

And she would have left work earlier too; except someone had trashed the restrooms. So, it took her a lot longer to finish the cleaning before she was able to punch-out.

There wasn’t going to be time to go home and change beforehand, either. She hailed a cab, and looked out the window, watching the rain soak the city.

Looking at her watch she knew she was going to be late, but since she didn’t have trouble catching a cab, it wouldn’t be too bad.

That was before she realized she had lost her last twenty, though. 

What had she done with it? 

Rummaging through everything, she finally had to cry “Stop!”

Hoping she’d have the dollar-forty in her bag for the two-block cab-fare.

Remarkably she did…

And that was probably the only luck she had that night. 

Sadly…

Rushing to the bus-stop she wasn’t paying attention and stepped in a puddle that went past her ankle.

Something odd had distracted her: A woman was sitting by a small fire on her porch.

Straightening herself out, she looked up just in time to see her bus pulling up to the corner. 

Running she tried to keep her wet shoe from slipping off.

It was useless, she’d never catch the bus before it pulled away.

She waved her arms and shouted “wait,” but indeed it was useless. The bus pulled away without her. 

No one noticed her desperate attempts.

Typical…

She didn’t have to rush anymore, the next bus wouldn’t come by for ten minutes.

Now she was really going to be late.

And after thirteen minutes it was obvious the next bus was running behind…

After three more minutes, the bus finally pulled up.

Boarding, the driver cracked, “look what washed in.” She would have laughed except she was afraid she’d cry instead.

As the bus went across town she watched everyone rush into their warm, well lit apartments or restaurants. 

Finally it was her stop, and she was nearly twenty minutes late.

She found the coffee shop her Dad said he’d meet her at.

Suddenly she wasn’t concerned about her dirty clothes or wet shoes.

What would she say?

It had been years since she’d seen him last, and that meeting hadn’t gone well…

She had asked him why he was never around when she was growing up, and he got defensive and stormed out of the nice restaurant where they had met. 

She was glad when he suggested a coffee-shop this time, that way if one of them abruptly left, it wouldn’t be so awkward.

Ducking she went in and waited for her eyes to adjust, trying to spot him.

But she couldn’t…

Oh No.

Did he get tired of waiting and leave, she worried to herself.

She hurried to the counter. “Was there a man here earlier, waiting for someone,” she asked.

The boy in an apron thought about it.

“I don’t think so. It’s been pretty quiet. Well anyway, no one said they were waiting for someone.”

A tide of hope rushed over her.

Maybe he was running late too, she thought.

“Would you like to order anything,” the boy asked?

She checked her bag, “how much is a cup of coffee,” she asked.

“A dollar, twenty-five,” the boy said.

She’d only had two-thirty-five left…

After twenty minutes her coffee was cold and she was wondering to herself. When the boy came from behind the counter to start cleaning to close, she got nervous.

Spotting a pay-phone, she took her quarter and dime and called.

The phone rang, and when someone picked up her heart sank.

“Hello,” the voice on the other line asked.

She could hear a lot of commotion in the background.

“Is Dean there,” she said.

“Dean!” the voice on the other line shouted.

“Who’s this,” he slurred.

She was worried this would happen.

“Dad, we were supposed to meet tonight,” she said.

The line was quiet…

“Trish, something came up,” he stammered.

“I know what came up,” she said.

23 years later, and it was the same as it ever was with him.

“I’m not going to fight with you over a phone,” he barked. “Something came up, what was I supposed to do,” he said - not asked…

“You could have met up with me like you said you would,” Trish said.

“I’m sorry, what about next week, or tomorrow night. I’m free tomorrow night,” he said.

She didn’t say anything.

“Trish,” the voice on the other line called.

“This is broken,” she chocked out over tears

“What,” Dean said?

“This is broken.”

Now he was quiet.

Then the line went dead…

The boy was waiting by the door, the coffee shop was about to close.

He had been annoyed she ran off, leaving her stuff. In fact, he had thought about just closing and making her come back to get everything tomorrow.

His attitude changed when she came back in.

“Hey, are you alright,” he asked.

Her eyeliner was running, and she was sobbing.

She didn’t say anything. She just took her bags and left.

Waiting for the bus, the rain wasn’t bothering her anymore.

On the ride back to her apartment she didn’t notice the warm, well lit places so much as she did the darkened windows.

She just wanted to go to her room and sleep.

Something caught her eye, though.

That woman over a little fire on the porch.

At the next stop she got off the bus and walked the five blocks back.

It was easy to find the house with the little fire. She walked up to the porch. Before the sidewalk led to the house, she stopped and stared.

The woman by the fire noticed her.

“What are you doing,” Trish asked; half inquisitively, half accusingly. 

“Pardon me,” the woman by the fire said.

“What are you doing,” Trish barked.

The woman by the fire was startled. “I’m burning branches,” she offered timidly.

“Why,” Trish asked.

“Well, tomorrow is Ash Wednesday” the woman said, and she poked the tiny fire.

“So,” Trish said.

“Well, we’re going to need ashes for the service,” the woman said, as she double-checked the small fire.

The woman was satisfied the the fire was quiet enough, there were only a few embers burning now.

“What do you need ashes for,” Trish asked, feeling a sob starting to push its way up.

Walking from the embers toward Trish, the woman said they would use those ashes to mark the cross on church-goers heads saying, “Remember, you are dust and to dust you shall return,” the next day.

Trish had been baptized, but her parents never took her to church much. She remembered her Catholic friends coming to school with those smears on their forehead, though.

“Everything returns to ashes,” the woman said, “everything whatsoever.”

“I know,” Trish, said quietly. “I know.”

The woman turned and started walking back to the porch.

Trish watched for a while, but then felt awkward and started to walk back toward the bus-stop.

Then clear as a blaring horn when you’re rushing to cross the street, “wait!”

Trish turned around. The woman was coming back and she was holding something.

Trish stopped and the woman met her in the middle of the sidewalk.

The woman pressed her thumb in ash that had been branches only an hour before. Then she pressed her ashen thumb on Trish’s forehead. “Remember, sister,” she said, “you are dust and to dust you shall return.”

Then Trish heard a word come from her mouth she wasn’t sure she’d ever said on her own.

The word was “amen.”

Trish turned to catch her bus. Turning back she saw the woman walking back to her small fire. 15 minutes later Trish  was walking up the stairs to her apartment.

Amen