A Different Kind of Yellow

The restaurant was as full as I expected for a Friday night. My agenda was simple—order dinner and go home.


An elderly woman sat on the only available bench in the crowded restaurant with a dozen or so individuals lingering around the takeout counter. After placing my order I pardoned my way through the waiting crowd until I reached the bench.

“May I?”

She nodded and tried to scoot closer to the wall.

I sat as close as I could to the large barrel that pinned us in.

The door on the other side of the barrel opened and closed with new customers arriving and satisfied ones leaving. The unusual briskness in the night air crept in with each opportunity and nipped at my bare ankles. I tucked my legs under the bench.

“Cold one for this time of the year,” my seat mate commented.

I smiled. “Yes.” I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes, thinking our conversation had ended.

“Worked all day and decided I wasn’t about to cook,” she continued.

I looked her way. She wore light blue scrub pants and a multicolor top. I wondered if she was a nurse or perhaps a dental hygienist.

“Me too.”

She glanced at the school ID badge on my jacket. “Been up since four shampooing carpets.”

House keeper? Maid? I guessed again at her occupation.

She nodded more to herself. “Did my house, then went and did my parents. Two houses in one day is exhausting.”

Care giver to aging parents?

“I bet they appreciate having clean carpets,” I said.

The server at the counter tapped a bell next to the cash register. “Cunningham? Mr. Cunningham, your order’s ready.”

Most of us glanced around and I suspected some, like me, checked one more person off of a mental list to how much closer we were to having our names called and headed to another destination.

Mr. Cunningham reached the counter, picked up a couple of Styrofoam containers and then walked past me. The smell of the hot seafood made my stomach grumble.

My companion chuckled. “For over twenty years, I’d head over when they’re out of town and usually do something.” She shifted to better face me—our knees close to touching.

“One time Mama had no idea what I was up to. I asked her, ‘if you could paint your kitchen any color, what would it be?’ Mama said she wanted yellow. Not too light or to dark.” The woman tucked a gray curl behind her ear. It blended in with the rest of her shoulder-length hair. “I found the color. A different kind of yellow. By the time my folks returned home from vacation, I had the entire kitchen painted.”

“That was thoughtful.” I found myself enjoying our conversation.

She gently touched my arm. “You know what my mama said? She said, ‘why’d you do all of this hard work?’” She leaned toward me. “I told her, ‘cause she’s my mama and I love her.”

“Jensen?” The server called out.

The woman next to me stood and headed toward the counter. I was sad to see our conversation come to an end. She picked up her containers and walked toward the door, but stopped when she reached the barrel.

“Mama’s in heaven now. I still take care of my step-dad. She would want me to. He’s coming home to clean carpets.” She winked at me before she headed into the cold night.

A loving daughter.