Walk to the bank
Lydia Kingswell was once a name of quiet renown among past and present students and staff of the University of British Columbia, Vancouver, when it came to banking matters. For more than forty years, she walked through the impressive revolving doors of the Bank of Montreal, situated within the Student Union Building on the university grounds.
She had begun as a teller and, through decades of careful and dedicated labour, became the branch manager. Her fingers had counted thousands in cash; her signature had signed off on mortgages; her voice had calmed countless worried international students trying to get by on meagre scholarships.
Her matronly looks won everybody's heart, particularly the young student community. She was a sympathetic ear for Kamaljeet of Ludhiana, India, a favourite boy of hers. Soon, she became his professional setback and personal crisis sounding board.
Now ninety, Lydia resided only a block from the campus in a peaceful, clean retirement complex. Her small suite had walls covered with framed certificates and pictures. Memories of her working years. Some showcased "Employee of the Month" medals; others depicted happy office Christmas parties and goodbye addresses at her retirement.
In her closet, neatly stored, was her navy-blue blazer encased in plastic, and her old ID badge still connected to a very worn-out blue lanyard. A pair of black heels, her favourite, stood below. The pair she could no longer use, but couldn't possibly give away.
Lydia suffered from dementia. The physicians had labelled it: Alzheimer's disease. Her caretaker, Marta, knew. Every morning, Lydia's brain rummaged through her memories like loose papers of outmoded bank statements, known but jumbled. Past and present merged. Only one ceremony remained intact.
Each morning, sharp at 8:30, Lydia put on work clothes. Not excluding Sundays.
"Can't keep the customers waiting. Today is the first day of the month, and the queue will be endless," she'd mumble, adjusting a pearl earring with shaking fingers.
She would iron the lapel of her blazer, nod to Marta, and declare,
"Time to open the branch."
Marta never interrupted her. There was no need to.
Lydia would stroll down the block, cane in hand, eyes aglow with fancied intent. The building still stood, but barely so. The doors were still shut, the windows barred. The paint flaked away in long strips. Birds had made their nests on the sills. The rustle of wings would sometimes shatter the thick stillness.
The bank had closed its doors for good following the shooting.
They explained it was a question of public safety, trust, and trauma. Things no vault, no matter how secure, could hold. In time, the site was fenced off, and a weathered wood sign heralded its destiny:
"Future Site of High-Rise Apartments for UBC Staff"
But Lydia couldn't—or wouldn't—see it.
Reaching the grassy slope, she’d stand at the edge and gaze upward as if waiting for the doors to swing open. She’d nod toward the space beside her.
“You’re in early, Kevin,” she’d say to no one.
And every morning, Marta followed a few steps behind, silently letting Lydia revisit the comfort of her former life.
In the late afternoon, again in her suite, Lydia would sit beside the window, observing clouds wander across the university landscape.
"Did I ever tell you how I began?" she'd say to Marta, who knitted beside her.
"Tell me again," Marta would say.
"In 1959, I was hired as a teller. No computers then. Just ledgers, pen, and gut."
"You did well."
"I did, didn't I?"
Lydia would smile, a gentle sparkle in her eyes, and then gaze back out of the window, as if still expecting something. During the peaceful hours of the evening, Lydia would fall asleep in her chair, a woollen shawl around her shoulders. The television hummed quietly. Maybe the news, or an old TV comedy that she no longer watched. Her fingers moved languidly in her sleep, as if tallying bills or flipping pages on a register past and gone.
And in the dream, the bank was open.
The doors swung open. The employees smiled and waved. Nora, her assistant, sat with her. Kevin delivered her coffee. The steel vault sparkled in the background.
And Lydia Kingswell, Branch Manager, sat at her desk.
Waiting for another day.
There was a time she knew every face,
Every number in its rightful place.
Gold-lined vaults of memory.
Now, crumbling as the mind ages.
She sees the bank, not shut, but intact,
Still nursing every troubled heart.
Coming onto these far shores,
Away from home, with dreams galore.
And though steel and stone remain.
Her memories slowly begin to fade.
In their stead, a foggy hue,
Superimposes what once was true.
Bio: Snigdha Agrawal was raised in a cosmopolitan environment, shaped by both Eastern and Western cultural influences. Educated at Loreto Institutions under the tutelage of Irish nuns, she developed a love for writing early in life.
A versatile writer, she explores a wide range of genres, including poetry, short stories, travelogues, and prose. She is the published author of five books, the latest being FRAGMENTS OF TIME, a collection of memoirs written in a clear, accessible style. The book is available worldwide on Amazon in all formats. She currently lives in Bangalore, India, where she continues to nurture her two lifelong passions: writing and travelling.
