When I approached her house the front door was already wide open. Not quite sure what to do, I hesitated for a moment before calling her from the porch.

“Ms. Gardner?”

After a moment, a thin, dainty woman appeared at the doorway. She was probably in her seventies, with wrinkled skin and long hair that was mostly a very dark gray but had one thick white streak in the front. “Come in, come in,” she said excitedly as she hurried me into the house. She led me through the front hallway and into the main room. She moved gracefully and smoothly, as if she floated rather than walked. When I followed her inside I could see that not only the door, but all the windows were open, allowing the wind to blow gently through the house. Ms. Gardner’s light, loose clothing billowed in the breeze. She had a distinctive sense of style; she wore long earrings and light, thin fabric that seemed to hang from her body.

The lack or air-conditioning made me nervous. The breeze helped, but it was still warm, especially for work in the attic.

My neighbor had told me about the job. She knew I was interested in earning some money during summer vacation and that Ms. Gardner needed some help cleaning out her attic and closets.

“I’ve started working in the attic. Would you like some lemonade or sweet tea? It’s quite warm up there.”

“No thank you, Ms. Gardner. I’m fine,” I replied.

“You must call me Eloise dear, and please help yourself whenever you’re ready for something cold to drink,” she said, motioning toward the refrigerator in the kitchen. Her voice was light and airy.

Eloise led me up the creaking, wooden stairs to the second floor. The bedroom windows were open, floral-patterned curtains blowing into the room, then retracting against the screen as the gentle wind changed direction. It was that time of summer when the weather is cool in the early morning, but quickly gives way to stagnant, humid air. As we ascended another set of stairs to the attic, the heat was evident. A square plastic fan whirred, tirelessly pulling hot air out through a window at the end of the attic while a green metal fan oscillated its welcome breeze from left to right, then left again.

Most of the boxes in the attic were covered with a thin layer of dust. Some were sealed shut with brown plastic packing tape, but most had flaps that lay open with various items poking out. At first I wasn’t sure how I could help, but Eloise gave me clear, simple instructions, and we soon had filled three boxes with old magazines, unused party supplies, and long-forgotten cookie tins and sports equipment.  

Eloise was apologetic when she asked if I could carry the boxes down to her car for her to donate and recycle. I reminded her that I was here to work, and she needn’t worry about me. I told her I would take a break for some lemonade while I was downstairs.

When I returned to the attic, Eloise was standing with her back to me, her hips swaying back and forth. When she heard me, she turned her head and I could see she was crying. I felt uncomfortable, and I didn’t know what to do. I meant to ask whether she was alright, or say something reassuring, but all I could say was, “Oh.”

She hurried over towards me. “I’m so sorry, my dear,” she said, wiping the tears from her face. She went on apologizing for what was to me an uncomfortable period of time.

“It’s alright. Really.”

She held a framed photograph, and when I saw it I realized that she had been dancing with it when I entered the room. “Who is that?” I asked, pointing to the man in the picture. It occurred to me that maybe I shouldn’t have asked, but Eloise smiled.

“It’s my husband,” and after a pause: “He died last year of cancer.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, there’s no need to be sorry.” She explained in a gentle tone that she was not crying sad tears but happy tears for all of the wonderful years she had shared with him.

After a moment I asked, “What was he like?”

Her lips curled into a soft smile and her eyes glittered in such a way that I felt I was about to learn an important secret. "Oh my, he was- well, he was certainly more outgoing than I was. He had a big personality. Had a little bit of fire in him." Her voice was soft and warm, and when she spoke her words enveloped me like a blanket, and I felt cozy and safe. She talked for a long time, and I listened intently. She told me about how they met. She told me stories about the trouble they'd get into together when they were younger. She told me about his smile. The moment was intimate and beautiful and private, and yet Eloise graciously welcomed me into it.

I’m only sixteen years old. I don’t have great aspirations for “when I grow up,” but I know I want to wear long earrings and float across the room. I want to cherish the time I spend with loved ones. When the time comes, I want to embrace my gray hair and wrinkles and share stories of times long ago. Most especially, I want to leave an impression on someone the way Eloise Gardner impacted me with her gentle kindness and her incredible stories on those summer days we spent together.