Often when I’m coming out of the pharmacy I see the same guy on the corner where I have to do a U-turn standing at the center divider holding up his sign, his pup quietly at his feet: I would guess a veteran, maybe 30. By now he recognizes me and I him and I give him a smile and a small nod if he wants to make eye contact. (My car door is always locked.)
Today while I waited for the light to change I found myself going through my purse.
I rolled down the window, batting away the sense of vulnerability to it. Aging has its privileges.
“I only have crackers,” I told him, wishing not for the first time that I had the packaged shelf-stable meals I used to keep in the car against emergencies that I don’t think are on the market anymore. Surely there’s a good replacement out there–but I’d have to look for one to know. And I’d have to remember to put it in the car where I can reach it without having to get out of my seat.
A small package of BelVita oatmeal cookies, or, as the package says, ‘breakfast biscuits.’ It wasn’t much but it was something.
He thanked me with a warmth I hadn’t seen in his face before. Suddenly the little bit of human connection that was really what I was trying to offer became what he, to my surprise, all the more gave to me.