Walking

One step at a time.

“Hey Aunt Terry, how did you and Uncle Ron meet?”

When my uncle suddenly passed away two and a half years ago, I sat in their Brooklyn apartment and realized I had no idea how their love story began. It seemed silly when the question arrived, because people always ask long term couples how they met. However, in my world, my aunt and uncle being together stirred no curiosity. It was just a fact.

My aunt’s hands trembled as she smiled down at the picture in her hand. While looking at him, she told me that they met on the street. She stopped speaking. I gave her a moment and then asked what she meant. She said,

“Yeah, on the street. I was walking down the street in Brooklyn on my way to a meeting. Ronnie saw me walking and said something to me and I stopped and talked to him. Then I asked if he wanted to come to the meeting with me and he did, been together since.”

I was shocked to say the least. How natural, how uncomplicated, how completely unfettered by all the things we do today when dating. It felt like a story of its time (1980s), void of cellphones, social media, and dating sites that have you showcase yourself like a rolodex. A Bronx man in his mid-late twenties sees a Brooklyn woman he likes, she stops, and they stay together for over 30 years. My aunt was in her mid-late thirties when they met and she told me to keep hope alive for my own love story.

I smiled and got giddy at how perfect the story was for my uncle. He loved to talk and he loved walking all over the city, so of course he was on this random street at this random time my aunt walked by.

Why wouldn’t he be?

–

As I write this, I’m sitting down in my house trying to motivate myself to workout soon. The leggings are on, my hair is under a bandana, and there is a banana I plan on eating before I leave. I should have gone earlier this morning, but I slept pretty shitty and I’ve learned to prioritize my rest even while being consistent. I will go, I know I will. My new pink Hokas are by the door, one slightly in front of the other, waiting for my feet to complete the movement. It’s only a short walk to the gym.

If I could walk everywhere, I would. I kind of already do. I walk to the gym, the train, my pilates studio, the supermarket, my dentist, and the bookstore cafe down the block from me. This is what living in a walkable place does for you, this is what I missed. In April 2024, when I came home to spread my uncle’s ashes in Prospect Park, I stayed with my aunt and cousin for a few days. One morning I took a long walk to Bedstuy from Clinton Hill. It was about a 40-45 min walk, but I figured I could do it in less time. After asking my aunt what she wanted from the black woman owned bakery I was heading to (Je T’aime Patisserie), I made the long walk. Often my favorite part of these long treks I take all over whatever city I find myself in, is the moment my legs ache and the only way to get home is through my willpower. FYI: My aunt said the chocolate croissant could do with a bit more chocolate.

After my uncle died, walking became more important to me. This was for obvious reasons, as moving helps you with grief and walking grounds you in a physical activity. However, walking became important because I was faced with how hard it was for my aunt to do this simple task. Her Parkinson’s was already impacting her body before my uncle’s passing and with her husband gone, everything became harder. I saw first hand how she needed assistance to walk to the kitchen table or the bathroom.

One visit she was having a bad day, where getting her feet to move was impossible and I heard her call my name. I got up and went into the bedroom to take her to the bathroom. It was…hard. I can’t express how much I felt like I was failing her, my smaller frame unable to brace her if she fell. Her fear of falling was exacerbated by knowing I wasn’t strong enough to catch her. I rocked her side to side, mimicking what I saw her son do when getting her to walk. We moved slowly, both of us trying to not burden the other. I didn’t want to show my fatigue and prove her fear right, but my arms were burning under the weight of her grasp. I kept saying motivational things,

“You got it Aunt Terry!”

“Don’t worry I have time, my meeting isn’t for a while.”

“You aren’t hurting me, I’m strong, I workout!”

Her laugh at that last statement would sustain me. I’m not sure if it was this visit or another, but once when helping her I saw her eyes well up with tears. When I sat down in the living room, I cried too.

It must have been so painful, physically and emotionally, to not easily do something you did your entire life. How tiring, frustrating, and helpless it must have felt to have your niece, who is 40+ years younger than you, have to help you get to the bathroom. So I kept telling her she wasn’t bothering me, it wasn’t a toll, and I had all the time in the world. Then I sat down once she closed the bathroom door, sweating and exhausted, only to realize I missed a meeting. An hour had gone by since I began to help her.

Sixty minutes. It took us sixty minutes to get her across the fifty foot distance between her room and the bathroom. A hard sixty minutes. I saw only a glimpse of what my cousin had to deal with as her caretaker. I got a glimpse into the last years of my uncle’s life as her husband. I sat in the living room and realized how many things I took for granted.

My pink Hokas will take me to the gym in an hour or so after I get through some work emails. A black pair of loafers took me to my aunt’s church where I read a scripture at her funeral less than two weeks ago. With each day since my uncle’s passing, living got harder for her. That’s the progressive nature of Parkinson’s or perhaps the progressive nature of grief. The true answer is it most likely was both.

I didn’t cry for a month after her death in the final days of March. I saw how much pain she was in, how hard it was, and I knew it wasn’t the life anyone should live. How unfair that a woman who traveled the world, even when her legs began to ache, lived a life confined to her apartment. My cousin and I had a conversation the week following her death where I asked him if I could ask a hard question. He said of course.

“Are you relieved?”

He answered and I nodded. He told me I was helpful. We still talk weekly, I think we will for the rest of our lives.

I struggle with the concept of heaven at times, but I hope that wherever my aunt and uncle are, they’re walking and talking to each other.

Now they don’t have to worry about silly things like hearts or neurodegenerative diseases separating them.