To Touch with a Gaze and Feel the Joy

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 9 minViews 3

June 14th

Nineteen years have I watched Ethel grow up in the little Yorkshire hamlet of Willowbrook, living with her mother Martha and her grandmother Mabel. From the moment she could speak, she nurtured a quiet hope that one day Jamesmemight return, for she has loved me since we were children. She would smile, lost in memories of the lad from the next farm who was five years older than her, and say:

It would be wonderful if James suddenly turned up here in the village. Sadly, my grandmother passed three years ago, though I tended to her until the end

After finishing the ninth grade, Ethel enrolled at the Midlands Medical College, graduated, and now works as a paramedic at the local health centre. She often asks herself:

What is a womans happiness? Does it even exist? We three live in an allfemale household, and I cant tell what happiness means to Mother. I think shes just as unsure. She once told me how my father, whom I never saw, fled when he learned she was pregnant. And my grandmother Mabel, wonderful and kind, raised her two daughters alone after being widowed early.

Though barely out of her teens, Ethel treats the villagers with gentle competenceshe easily draws blood, checks blood pressure, and greets every patient with courtesy. The locals respect her because she is one of their own. Since childhood she has dreamed of being a medical professional, nursing everything from cats and dogs to the neighbours children, smearing green antiseptic on scraped knees, and tending her own minor cuts.

Today, after a long shift at the health centre, I found myself thinking of Ethel again.

Why do I keep wondering about her? I chided myself. Perhaps shes already married, maybe she has a brood of children, and will never know Ive loved her since we were thirteen.

The last time I visited was for my grandmothers funeral; we spoke little. She came with her mother, who seemed frail, leaning on my arm for support.

Winter has settled in, the New Year passed, and February is drawing to a close. Martha works as the village postmistress, while Mabel stays at home baking scones, making dumplings and jamfilled pastries.

On my way back, I glanced at the neighbours cottagethe one whose key Mabel gave me long ago while I cared for her. After heavy snowstorms I sometimes cleared the path to that house, hoping James might appear, but

Hi, Gran, wheres Mother? She should be home by now, asked my little niece.

She came earlier but went to visit Mary, her friend, whos feeling under the weather. Shell be back soon; Ive taken her medicine. Come inside, Ill get you something to eat. Youll warm up with us, Mabel said, her voice soft and affectionate.

Thanks, Gran. Im famished, and its bitter cold today. Spring will be here soon, and winter will finally lose its grip, I laughed. When spring comes, it will chase the chill away, and Ill be ready for brighter days.

I retreated to my modest room, lay on the bed, and Ethels face floated back to me. Once, when she was twelve, she helped her grandfather Samuel repair a roof during a summer holiday. He was seventeen then. He slipped, almost fell off, but Samuel caught him just in time; a stray nail cut his foot. From my yard I saw the incident, rushed home for bandages and green antiseptic, and raced to the neighbours garden where James sat clutching his injured foot while his grandmother clapped her hands in worry.

Does it hurt, James? Let me dress the wound, Ethel demanded, eyes bright.

Its all right, love, he muttered, surprised.

Dont be shy, his grandmother chided. Shes been treating everyone since she was a girl, bandaging like a proper nurse.

Ethel examined the cut, reassured him, and asked constantly, Does it hurt? Her blue eyes shone with compassion, and she almost wept for his pain. When James saw them, he smiled.

No pain at all, he replied, grateful for her gentle care. He never forgot those blue eyes; he was about twelve then.

When James returned from the army, he found his mother pale, lips cracked. She wept tears of joy at seeing her son, and said, Thank God, my boy, youre home; now I can die in peace.

Mother, enough of that, he answered, promising to help her always. He proved a good son: assisting his mother, giving injections, massaging sore muscles; her heart grew stronger. He found work and dreamed of supporting his mother on her own two feet, a goal he steadily achieved. Soon she became more lively, handling household chores, often reminiscing about the old family farm.

Ah, my son, how wonderful it would be to live back at the farm, not climbing down from a fourthfloor flat, just a chair on the porch and breathing fresh country air, perhaps keeping a few chickens she mused.

James decided to travel to the village on a Saturday. He knew it was foolish to go in winter to a longabandoned cottage, but he promised his mother he would scout the place. Her eyes glittered with hope; he set off without delay, even though he doubted the dream of living there was realistic.

Arriving by bus, he was surprised to see a tractorcleared lane leading straight to the old cottageonce a yearly stop for him, now a place he didnt want to leave.

Probably Ill have to wade kneedeep in snow, he thought, but the narrow path was already swept to the gate, then to the threestep porch, where an old broom leaned.

Whos been clearing this, and perhaps someone already moved in? he wondered.

The windows were draped with light curtains, sewn by Mabel herself on a sewing machine; she loved looking out and never drew them closed. James stepped onto the porch, retrieved the key from his pocket, and turned the lock. A cheerful, youthful voice called from behind:

Hello! You havent been here in ages; Ive been waiting, feeling youd come back someday.

James startled, almost stumbling off the porch. Before him stood a striking, slender young woman in a duffle coat and a fluffy white hat, her blue eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed with a hint of pink, smiling warmly.

Dont you remember me? Im Mabels granddaughter try to recall.

He remembered the girl who had tended his foot, who never let anyone else near his wound. Her eyes, her namehe tried.

Im Ethel, she said, hoping hed recognise.

Ethel, of course, Ethel, James replied, a grin spreading. How could I forget? You bandaged my foot you were so tiny then, hair in twin braids down to your shoulders.

You do remember?

Her face lit with a happy grin, and James couldnt look away, returning her smile.

I used to clear the snow, waiting for you. I have so many things to tell you. Come in, have tea with my mother and grandmother; theyll be delighted. Then we can explore the house together.

Inside, James sipped tea with a dollop of raspberry jam, listening to Ethels animated tales. Mabel and Martha retreated to another room after the joyful reunion.

My grandmothers been ill lately, and I didnt want to upset you both, Ethel confessed. I cared for her, fed her. Ive wanted to be a medical professional since I was a child, and now Im a paramedic here.

I remember you treating my foot, James laughed. You did it so seriously that the scar vanished.

Oh, stop it, she waved off, blushing. I was just so worried about you; Ive loved you since we were kids She covered her mouth, surprised by her own words.

James was taken aback.

Yes, you were a lanky girl then, but I respected you for your earnest care, he replied, feeling a surge of affection.

Ethel handed him the key to his grandmothers cottage.

This is the key Mabel gave me when she fell ill; she always said youd return, maybe even stay, she said, eyes dropping shyly.

Keep the key, James said. Lets go inside.

The house was tidy, as if Mabel had just stepped out. He understood how much he owed her for this orderliness and felt gratitude toward Ethel.

I must return home now, but I promise Ill come back, bringing my mother too. Shell love the fresh air. Ill set the house right, and you wait for me. Your shining eyes wont let me forget, he said, his heart leaping.

James realized he wanted to return, to touch the world with his eyes and feel true happiness. He knew life without Ethel felt incomplete.

How wonderful that Ethel remains single, that Im here, he thought as he saw her wave him onto the bus. Laughter bubbled up, and he felt like singing.

Boarding the bus, he declared, My grandmother was right; Ill come back and never let you go.

Ethel walked home with a smile, finally understanding what a womans happiness truly is.

Lesson learned: love that waits patiently, nurtured by simple kindness, is the truest form of happiness, and it is never too late to return to the place where your heart belongs.

The Key in His Hand Rain tapped monotonously at the window of the small London flat, like a metronome counting down the hours. Michael sat hunched on the edge of his sagging single bed, as if trying to make himself smaller, less visible to fate. His large hands, once strong and skilled on the factory floor, now rested helplessly on his knees. Occasionally, his fingers clenched in a futile attempt to seize something intangible. He stared not just at the peeling wallpaper but at the map of his hopeless daily routes: from the local NHS surgery to the private diagnostic clinic. His gaze was washed-out, like a faded film stuck on a single scene. Another doctor, another condescending “Well, at your age, you can’t expect miracles.” He didn’t get angry. Anger took energy—a resource he no longer had. All that remained was exhaustion. The pain in his back had become more than a symptom; it was a landscape, the constant white noise of helplessness behind every thought and action. He followed every instruction: took the medication, rubbed in the ointments, lay on the cold physiotherapy couch, feeling like a broken piece of machinery at a scrapyard. And all the while—he waited. Passively, almost religiously, he waited for the life preserver thrown by someone else: the state, a genius doctor, an expert professor, anyone who might haul him out of this slow-sinking bog. He searched the horizon of his life and saw nothing but the grey sheet of rain beyond the window. Michael’s resolve, once so focused on solving any problem at work or at home, had shrunk to a single function: to endure and hope for a miracle from outside. Family… It had all but disappeared, quietly and quickly. First, his clever daughter Katie left for the bright lights of Manchester. He wished her every success—“Dad, I’ll help as soon as I’m on my feet,” she’d promised on the phone. It almost didn’t matter. Then his wife left—not to the shops, but forever. Rachel had burned out fast: ruthless cancer found too late. Michael was left not only with his aching back but also the silent accusation—he, half-collapsed and half-upright, was alive, and she, his support and spark, was gone in three months. He looked after her as best he could until the cough broke her voice and the sparkle faded from her eyes. The last thing she said to him, holding his hand in the hospice: “Hold on, Mike…” And he broke entirely. Katie called and offered for him to move in with her, a rental on the outskirts. But what was the point? He’d only be a burden, out of place in her world, and she wasn’t coming back. Now only Rachel’s younger sister, Val, visited, every Thursday, like clockwork: a Tupperware of stew, a packet of painkillers, a bag of groceries. “How are you, Mike?” she’d ask, unbuttoning her coat. “Not bad,” he’d answer. She would tidy his pokey flat, as if tidying his world, then leave behind the faint scent of her perfume and the palpable sense of duty fulfilled. He was grateful. And infinitely alone. His loneliness wasn’t just physical; it was a cell of his own grief and quiet anger at an unfair world. One especially bleak evening, his eyes fell to the scuffed carpet—and spotted the flat key, dropped after his latest laborious return from the clinic. Just a key. Nothing special. As he stared, it became something else—the focus of his attention. Suddenly, he remembered his granddad, Peter, vividly, as if flicking on the light in a dark room. Granddad, with an empty sleeve tucked into his belt, could tie his laces one-handed with a broken fork, not hurrying, always triumphant when he succeeded. “See, Mikey—tools are always close at hand. Sometimes they look like junk, but that’s the trick: spot the ally in the scrap.” As a boy, Michael brushed it off as old man talk. Granddad was a hero; heroes manage anything. Michael was just ordinary, and his war with pain and loneliness couldn’t be won with kitchen utensils. But now, staring at the key, the old lesson struck home. Granddad never waited for rescue—he used what he had. Not to defeat pain or loss, but helplessness. What had Michael done? Only waited, bitter and passive, at the threshold of someone else’s kindness. The thought stirred him. Now, that key—a bit of metal, echoing with his granddad’s words—became an unspoken command. He stood, joints popping painfully, and grasped the key. Turning to the wall, he pressed the blunt end against the spot on his back that ached most. Then, carefully, he let his weight lean into it. It wasn’t treatment or massage—just pressure. Blunt, direct, pain against pain. He found a point where the struggle brought not a new jolt of agony but a dull, strange relief, as if something inside released ever so slightly. Small experiments: a bit higher, a bit lower. Again. Every movement was slow, tentative, attentive to his body’s response. It wasn’t a cure; it was a negotiation, and the old key was his tool of choice. He felt foolish—surely a key wasn’t a miracle. But the next evening, when the pain crept in again, he tried once more. And again. He found the spots, the leverage, and the strange relief, as if he could prise open the pain from within. He started to use the doorframe for gentle stretches. A glass of water on the bedside reminded him to stay hydrated. Just water—free, simple. Michael stopped waiting, hands in lap. Instead, he used what he had: a key, a doorframe, the floor for small stretches, his own determination. He kept a little notebook, not tracking pain, but victories: “Today I stood at the cooker five minutes longer.” He lined three empty baked bean tins on the windowsill, filled them with potting soil, and pressed in a few onion bulbs. Not a garden, exactly—but three containers of life for which he was now responsible. A month passed. At his next check-up, the GP looked at the scans, then at Michael. “There’s real improvement. Have you been doing something new?” “Yes,” Michael replied. “Tool improvisation.” He didn’t mention the key. The doctor wouldn’t understand. But Michael knew. No rescue ship. No miracle cure. Just tools—lying unnoticed on his floor, while he’d waited for someone else to turn on the light. One Wednesday, when Val arrived with her usual soup, she paused, surprised at the door. On the windowsill, green onion shoots pointed to the pale London sky. The room smelled of fresh growth, not staleness and pills. “You… what’s this?” she managed, staring at him—upright, smiling. “A garden,” Michael answered simply. Then, after a pause: “Want some for your soup? Homegrown, fresh.” That evening, she lingered over a cup of tea. He didn’t complain about his health; instead, he told her about the stairs—how each day, he climbed one step higher. Salvation didn’t appear as Dr. Dolittle or some visiting angel. It showed up as a door key, a frame, an empty tin, and the stairs outside. No magic, and no cure for age or grief. But in his hand, ordinary things became tools; not for grand victories, just for the small, daily climb. And sometimes, when you stop waiting for a golden staircase from the heavens and finally notice the everyday concrete one at your feet, you realize climbing it—slowly, steadily, with help where you find it—is what living really means. On the windowsill, in three humble tins, juicy green onions grew. And it was, truly, the finest garden in the world.