The doors are open. The light seeps in from the narrow opening. But Ethel sits still on the bare wooden chair. Her dark shoulders stoop down as she tries to figure out this new gadget. They just left her alone with this thing as though that would replace them. Her frizzled hair reflects the frizzle she feels in her brain as she stares at the cold screen. If only the postman would come with a letter, a letter to tell her they are okay. Instead they gave her this, and told her to text them. Not even a phone call. “We might be busy, please text.”

Text? What on earth did they mean. Text are words on a page, or maybe a textbook she’d had in school. Not a letter. She wanted a letter. Not the cold floor and the empty doorway.

I wrote this at a writing class today led by Australian author Emily Bitto. It was in response to a painting of a woman sitting alone in a chair with slightly open doors, in a bare room. But actually I realized it was in response to a lovely widow I met at the train station. She and I got talking first about the weather, then about being widows and then about computers. She had never learned to use a computer. How sad, not just sad but tragic. Not knowing how to use a computer nowadays is like not knowing how to use a car while living on an isolated farmstead.

Adjusting to the modern world is constantly learning new things. This widow helped me today, to better negotiate getting around in the city. She knew her streets. She helped me find my way to my writing workshop. I wish she was open to learning how to use the computer, but I do not think she is or she would have got her children or her husband teach her.

After class I had to ask questions to find my way to the train. Central station was crowded. One had to go past stores with blaring signs and down many escalators to get to the trains.