I visited my friend Olga today. Throughout the visit, Olga is in great girlish mood: she sits on her settee eagerly leaning forward, her lovely soft animated face smiling, surrounded by fresh coloured blooms: poppies, sweet peas, green curling shoots blossoming on the windowsill behind her. It is a sunny, bright, cheerful winter day. She has large blue eyes, and talks volubly about Colin, the love of her life, and all the while Olga crosses and uncrosses her ankles, sweeps her feet over the carpet, unable to sit still. She remembers her mother giving her a lovely picture when she was 9 years old and in her youth visiting a romany woman in Barcelona with a friend to have her future told (never to be disclosed to her pious mother!...): She was told she already knew her intended husband and their lives were and would always be running parallel to each other (she makes a sign with her two index fingers side by side) and never to part; if either were ever to mistakenly marry someone else, that marriage would have to be broken. Words of warning! We swapped stories, talked about our loved ones, had a cup of tea, the best couple of hours I pent for a long time. I have known Olga slightly now for about 10 years, but since lockdown we have come to know each other better. Somehow that which people mysteriously call the new normal has favoured this increased connection, and what joy it has been. Olga is a sparkling, vivacious, courageous, kind lady of 101 and counting. She will be 102 in the spring and the highlight of her days is coming to church every Sunday and be walked out by a handsome 78 year old young man, since Colin died a good twenty years ago and she still misses him so much. I told her today that I appreciate her friendship, her presence, her company very much and explained why. She said she likes me too, and I believed her!
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