The old woman at the bank

The woman was ahead of me in line at the bank. She wore sneakers/baskets/trainers (American/French/English), thick stockings, a house dress and a ratty coat. Her hat, much like a lumberjack in the woods of Maine might wear, had flaps although it wasn't cold. She rested her cane next to the counter.

The teller asked her name repeatedly before she understood. The woman did not understand the request for her first name or date of birth. She wanted 150 Franks.

"Euros," the teller said.

"Franks," the old woman said.

More questioning with little response continued while the teller tried to locate the account and picked up the telephone to ask for help as the line grew. No other employee came to her aid.

"Write down what you want to know," I offered. She did on a yellow post-it note.

It worked.

"Can you accompany me?" the woman. Asked. The tellers don't have cash but give people a one-use ATM card.

The teller led the woman to the machine and pulled out the 150 Euros for the woman, who thanked her profusely shuffled away.

"She was like my mother at the end," I said when I stood before the teller. And maybe someday we will all be like that.