Christmas 2017

The bus pulled up to the curb in front of me. It's late in the day, dark; most commuters have gone home already, the sidewalks pulsing mostly now with yelling, stumbling drunks, addicts, dealers. There’s a guy yelling at some cops, flipping them the bird as he stomps away, the cops are yelling back at him insults about his intelligence. I was anxious to just get on the bus and home, but the driver motioned me to wait - one more person to get off.

Slowly she came. Slowly. So slowly. An old woman with a cane but carrying far too many over-filled shopping bags to be able to use it properly.

Unsteady on her feet, she hesitated at the steps. The driver got up and relieved her of her cane and a few bags, guided her hand to the railing. But she still couldn't quite organize herself to make the next step down. I reached out for her, hesitantly and drew back. She struggled half a moment more.

"Can I hold you?" I said.
I meant to say “Can I help you?” but it came out, “Can I hold you?”

"Hold me, honey, hold me," she said with two notes of need and grace as she trembled to keep herself upright.

I quickly braced her arm in my hands and she leaned her weight into me.

I talked her feet down safely to the filthy, wet sidewalk. "You're almost there, I've got you, keep stepping, you're just there now, don't worry, keep going."

The driver carefully assembled the bags and cane back into the woman's hands.

"Oh, thank you everybody and Merry Christmas!" she said as she teetered away from the door and toward the street corner.

It's the first time anyone has said it to me this year. "Merry Christmas," I said, the words escaping me like a rushed release of a long-held breath of prayer, like a Bless You and I said it again, louder, "Merry Christmas", like a Thank You, and my chest filled up with the benediction of gratitude, the gift of a stranger's "hold me" softly weighted still against my palms.

Monday Morning Time-Traveler

Something otherworldly on a walk to work: 

As I had just crossed a street and walked a few steps back up onto the sidewalk, a man came around the building corner with such perfectly fluid timing that he fell into step, exactly and closely beside me. Out of the corner of my eye, in an instant, I assessed:  bathed and groomed but still in a wild sort of way; copious head of hair, enormous mustache and long beard all the soft yellow-white color of aged ivory; a solidly built man wearing a supple and old brown leather jacket. But then I registered the large, white and gray-streaked wolf pelt, complete with head and tail draped across his shoulders. The man smelled strongly of leather and wind and animal. He kept shrugging the wolf more snugly up onto his shoulders, around his neck.  The tail and a back leg bounced softly between his coat sleeve and my shoulder; the movement and the scent made it feel still alive.  I was holding my breath – not from fright but because I had a sudden and very real feeling that this man had just stepped through a hole in time in perfect synchronicity with me – some Wild West gold-prospector ghost of a man was walking close beside me, space/time continuum unraveling in the narrow chasm of air between us. I was dying to say something, anything, but words had fled me. I held my breath, not wanting anything to break the spell, if it was one.  I can’t remember the last time I was literally spellbound - maybe some time when I was eight or ten – and the feeling was euphoric.  We walked a full block together without a word or a met glance, but completely in step with one another.  It felt amicable and completely nonthreatening.  I think he knew he was making my day because I couldn’t keep the small grin of wonder off my face and I never broke my own stride to let him ahead or to hurry ahead myself.  If he wanted to walk a ways with me, then - Hell, yes, let’s!  If only that!  

Then I had to cross the street.  As we continued along the same path for a few yards on opposite sides of the road, I noticed the black pants tucked into tall black riding boots, and just how barrel-chested he was and how proudly he sauntered and the serene look on his face, and the large black satchel dangling from his fist. As I ducked into Starbucks for my habitual morning coffee, he sauntered over to the courthouse steps and I lost sight of him.  Our paths - and time, I am certain - diverged and I felt a small, strange loss of sorts.  

Anything can happen at any moment. Pockets of bewilderment leading to delight can open anywhere. Eyes wide open...and say yes.