Way Harder Than I Imagined

Finished. Thrift store run done. Appointment at the consignment store made. Housecleaner came and worked her magic. Papers in their place. 


And it's Valentine's Day.  And it shouldn't be difficult, but it is. 


Missing is my least favorite emotion.  Of all of them.  I'd take depression, sadness, anger -- I'd take ANYTHING rather than missing.  But in the scheme of things, my missing is really minor and I'm aware of that.  There are people who are really missing, and here's my story of just that. 


My son and I always run a race together at Valentine's Day.  This year, his Other Commitments got in the way.  And although he was clear that he would rather race than fulfill his Other Commitments, the mommy-follow-through-guilt got the better of me, and we didn't run together.  When I went to pick him up from his Other Commitments, he was clear -- he would have MUCH RATHER RACED.  Me, too.  There's a whole life of Other Commitments waiting at the door.  There's only so many do-it-together races to be had.  


So on the way home, we stop at the Farmer's Market, both feeling a little verklempt.  I park the car and look across the street at all the stalls and people bustling about.  This woman emerges from the crowd carrying two large bunches of flowers -- yellows, rusts, reds, oranges.  She was probably in her 60s.  Short.  Stout.  She looked absolutely stunning.  It quite shocked me to see here there.  She was just picture perfect. 


I pointed her out to my son.  "Look at her with those flowers.  She looks beautiful."  I think I heard his eyes roll.


We got out of our car and grabbed our bags.  Started to head to the market.  When I looked up, she was just there, walking toward her car parked next to ours.  She couldn't have been more than five-feet tall.  Dyed strawberry blonde hair.  Sunglasses.  Pants that she could have worn on a cruise.  


I said, "You look so beautiful with your flowers.  Just beautiful."


She turned and looked at me.  "Thank you so much for saying that," she said.  Her mouth turned down and tears sprouted.  She went on, "Because I am SO SAD.  I just lost my husband and he was always the one who told me I looked beautiful.  No one has said that since he's..." and she cried.  


I then sprouted my own tears, walked over to this perfect stranger, took her in my arms and rocked her.  And she cried and I cried.  


And I think my 13-year old sat in the background in wonder and perhaps pubescent embarrassment.


After a second we let go, and she told me her husband's name and where I could find the bench dedicated to him in the Village Green and she invited me to sit there one day if I wanted.  


And I stood there at that minute and knew.  I'm sure they had their troubles.  I'm sure they are flawed just like the rest of us.  But for whatever reason, that woman let me know in that brief interlude that their love was pure.  It was extensive.  


As we turned to leave, she said to my son, "Thank you for watching."  And I knew what she meant.  Thank you for witnessing my missing.  Thank you for witnessing my pain.  Thank you for being present while I was being human.  


So, Nameless Lady, Happy Valentine's Day to you.  I'm sure no one has told you yet today, so let me be the first.  You look beautiful today.