melissamleddy posted: " On Monday morning, I maneuvered my grocery cart through the produce section and adjoining bakery of Market 32. A bag of Honeycrisp apples, cucumbers, a carton of cinnamon rolls—somewhat slowly but nevertheless productively, I filled up the cart, checkmar" Melissa Leddy
On Monday morning, I maneuvered my grocery cart through the produce section and adjoining bakery of Market 32. A bag of Honeycrisp apples, cucumbers, a carton of cinnamon rolls—somewhat slowly but nevertheless productively, I filled up the cart, checkmark-ing my way through my grocery-store list.
Earlier that morning, before I'd dropped the girls off at school, I received some bad news about someone I'm close to. I want to respect this person's privacy, so I won't share specific details...except to share the main point, which is that I wished there was something I could do, at that moment, to help. I wished I could be there.
It was impossible, though, for lots of reasons.
There I was, then: at the grocery store, getting food for my family. An ordinary, obligatory (and in my case, second-choice) place to be, and thing to be doing.
Sigh.
I glanced at my list. Next up: a rotisserie chicken.
"Melissa?"
I looked up. A 60-ish woman wearing a lavender sweater was smiling at me. I smiled back, said hello.
This lady and I had first met at a nonprofit group we were both involved in, about five years ago. More recently, though, we'd bumped into each other around town: Market 32, the Rail Trail, the library.
"How are you doing?" the lady asked.
Pretty well, I replied. How about you?
The lady paused. "To be honest...not good."
She shared with me that her sister was very sick, in another state (North Carolina, I think). She was waiting for a call from another family member, who would let her know if she should indeed leave to see the sister. And, I assumed, to say good-bye.
"I'm very sorry," I said.
I meant it. As this lady began talking, I immediately thought of my own sister. Tears came to my eyes, in fact, because I so easily empathized with the situation.
"I'm very sorry," I repeated. "I really am."
Words often fail, in difficult times. Despite my inability to muster more comforting conversation, the lady touched a hand to her heart. "Thank you, Melissa," she said. "It was good to talk with you. I was meant to see you today."
Her saying this, friends—it moved me. It also made me think...even though I'd wished I could be somewhere else, for someone else...maybe I actually was where I was supposed to be. Just maybe.
A few days earlier, on Friday evening, I was working at the library, as I usually am on Friday evenings. It probably won't surprise anyone to learn that the Friday-evening shift at a suburban library tends to be quiet, especially around the 8 p.m. mark.
Around 8 p.m., then, I was chatting with one of my Friday-night colleagues, a librarian named Tiffany. Tiffany and I are similar in age (although I'm a few years older), and during the past year, we've gotten to know each other more and more, as co-workers do. Tiffany is nice, and fun; I enjoy talking (and commiserating!) with her.
"You know," I said last Friday evening, "if we knew each other in real life, we'd be friends." By which I meant, outside of work.
Tiffany smiled. "We are friends in real life," she said.
Do you know what I said next? Yes, friends, of course you do: "Awww!"
Real life.
This is it. How foolish of me to forget that—or never acknowledge it in the first place.
Maybe we don't have our dream job, or preferred work schedule. Maybe we're not where we'd like to be, exactly. Perfectly.
The way we imagined it all would be.
No matter.
Today...is...not...a...layover.
This is it.
This is the stop; here is the place.
This is our real life.
I was meant to see you today.
Photo credit: Pixabay
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