The Man in the Car
There was a man in the passenger seat of the minivan, parked in the busy lot. A younger woman drove him, perhaps a family member.
His cheeks were drawn, his skin paper thin, his eyes dark and serious. My pace was quick as I loaded my trunk, returned the shopping cart, and got behind my steering wheel. Rushing from one place to the next like my own personal assistant, I race the clock. Always. I trick myself into thinking my family benefits from my efforts; in reality the minutes hold too many useless, empty boxes that must be checked. Or else.
I felt someone watching, glanced up and caught his searching eyes. His sad eyes held mine, almost desperate, asking questions I didn't understand. I didn't recognize him. I gave a polite half-smile.
In awkward movements I broke the trance and fumbled with keys to start my car. Empty casserole dishes waited impatiently for my green enchiladas. In the breath's moment between reverse and rolling forward, I glanced up again to see his profile. His head was turned away, facing forward now, staring downward.
That was when I recognized him.
Many years ago we'd hug at church. He was a decorated war hero and proudly wore his Veteran hat, which was in perfect condition. He'd joke with my babies. He smiled. Memory perfectly recounted his face as fuller, brighter, happier. I remembered him. I think he was wondering if I remembered him, but my body language told him he was long forgotten.
Perhaps I'm misreading the situation and he didn't remember me? Maybe he looked down to check a phone message? This is what I told myself as I idled at the stop light, after I kept driving out of the parking lot, after I ignored a wonderful man I once knew.
I didn't turn around.
I didn't mean to allow my need to check the empty boxes overtake my desire to be kind, but I think I did. I didn't mean to make him feel forgotten, but I think I did.
Also, I burned the enchiladas.
Bucky
His cheeks were drawn, his skin paper thin, his eyes dark and serious. My pace was quick as I loaded my trunk, returned the shopping cart, and got behind my steering wheel. Rushing from one place to the next like my own personal assistant, I race the clock. Always. I trick myself into thinking my family benefits from my efforts; in reality the minutes hold too many useless, empty boxes that must be checked. Or else.
I felt someone watching, glanced up and caught his searching eyes. His sad eyes held mine, almost desperate, asking questions I didn't understand. I didn't recognize him. I gave a polite half-smile.
In awkward movements I broke the trance and fumbled with keys to start my car. Empty casserole dishes waited impatiently for my green enchiladas. In the breath's moment between reverse and rolling forward, I glanced up again to see his profile. His head was turned away, facing forward now, staring downward.
That was when I recognized him.
Many years ago we'd hug at church. He was a decorated war hero and proudly wore his Veteran hat, which was in perfect condition. He'd joke with my babies. He smiled. Memory perfectly recounted his face as fuller, brighter, happier. I remembered him. I think he was wondering if I remembered him, but my body language told him he was long forgotten.
Perhaps I'm misreading the situation and he didn't remember me? Maybe he looked down to check a phone message? This is what I told myself as I idled at the stop light, after I kept driving out of the parking lot, after I ignored a wonderful man I once knew.
I didn't turn around.
I didn't mean to allow my need to check the empty boxes overtake my desire to be kind, but I think I did. I didn't mean to make him feel forgotten, but I think I did.
Also, I burned the enchiladas.
Bucky
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