The first thing I noticed was her hunch protruding from the back of her shoulders. Her wrinkled hands which have seen through the height of her youth reached forward to clear those plates left by the previous diners. Hands trembling, spilling sauces along the way, she cleared the messy leftovers they so hastily left behind. I watched each movement, slow but steady, her intention clear and decisive, following the motions she repeats table after table, day after day. I thanked her, again and again…and her wrinkled lips curled into an appreciative smile, her eyes lit up. My heart warmed towards this old woman who made Sunday dinner a better meal for me.
Her smile lingered as she settled into her routine at a table not far off, those hands that cleaned after us as we stream into the food court, and leave our plates uncleared. We no longer clean up after ourselves, we even forget to stack the plates to make things a little easier for the silent hardworking cleaners. Neither do some of us nod an appreciate thank-you in their direction.
It was only proper that the younger ones cleared the table while the older folks sit back and rest after a hard day’s worth of cooking. Tables have turned – why do the old ones clean up after us? Why do those people who have moulded our society as it is today have to stand hours at their jobs? Why is it that the seventy-somethings are the ones hobbling around while the seventeen-somethings laze around at cafes? Why is it that those hands that made our lives so comfortable today are not entitled to a pampering hand massage, but have to pick at our leftovers and throw them into a bin on our behalf?
We whiz by so quickly, so caught up in the race towards success, so intent on reaching the next million mark. We forget the hands that carried us from the cradle, we forget the smile on her face.
