It hasn’t escaped me these past few days.
Walking through the beautiful neighbourhoods near where I live. Old majestic homes, windy roads, and sculpted gardens.
Stopping to pet dogs. Chatting with neighbours. Sitting at my kitchen table reading and taking notes, or enjoying a meal I’ve just created. Holding a warming cup of tea or coffee in the mug the little boy across the way gave me for Christmas.
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The way a woman wearing an old coat a few sizes to big, and smelling of smoke, clutched it closer, as if it were a small comfort.
The thing that first I noticed about the couple walking through the store was that they were holding hands. You don’t see that all that often anymore, at least I haven’t noticed it. They looked to be in their late 60s/early 70s. And then I saw how grey they were. Their clothes rumpled and faded. Their shoes looked sooty. And their faces. Simultaneously blank, and yet so full. It was as thought they had suddenly materialized in the store, and weren’t sure how they got there.
I started to walk up to them, to say or offer something…. but they pulled closer together, and clasped their hands tighter.
It was then I knew. That there was nothing in the store for them in that moment. That more than anything, they wished they were just two people shopping. That they would go home, wandering through their beautiful neighbourhood, pet a familiar dog, and sit at their kitchen table to enjoy a meal they had just created.
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