the second attempt

And so begins my short story. 

He walks in. I have been waiting for some time now. Oh I know, the traffic is just worse now, and to think that I used to once complain about it. so many years have passed. But he looks the way I imagined him to. That broad forehead, that distinct feature. I see the height, not as tall, or maybe, I have stooped more. He has an inquisitive look. That’s different. That was never there earlier on that face. He inquires about me, asks me to not bother with tea or water. I insist. After all, that is all I can offer now, although I would love to have a glass of something stronger. But the doctor has advised otherwise, and well today I feel like adhering to him, maybe just until he is here. 
And after the tea, after the small tit-bit about the traffic and the weather and the condition of the society, I ask him, why now, why after so many years. He says he just came across my name, maybe he had heard of me or saw it written somewhere, and he was around, so he thought, maybe he could stop over. Who does these things nowadays. Everyone is too busy going about with their daily routine. Who cares about an old woman living by herself or about finishing something that was started so long back. 
I tell him there was nothing to tell. What happened was so long back, although the memory of it is still fresh. Still intact with me. I take it out every now and then, clean it of all the cobwebs that might have come and then relive it. how else would I have survived so many years. I know, I am foolish. I should have gone out more, seen more, drank more. Maybe I did, maybe I dint. That’s not relevant. All that is relevant for today is that those memories are the only thing that is making me go on, my only support. Oh my family has not forgotten me, they come and visit. But the memory is all that I need to not be lonely. 
He starts looking inquiringly again, where have I gotten lost he wonders. He sees me looking at his face, my eyes getting stuck on that distinct feature. I cry I think. I don’t know for sure, I wanted to. And finally I say, all that I can say, I have loved you all my life like my own. He takes my wrinkled hand in his and says, “I think he loved you too, all his life, like his own.”