The Fall

A beautiful day...somewhat windy, but it wasn't going to deter me from getting bedding plants and having fun, digging in the dirt. Anticipating the afternoon's activities, I bounced down my front steps without paying attention to the wire I stake my dog out with. I felt it wrap around my foot, and for a brief second before I felt myself hurtle into space and slam onto my knees on the sidewalk, I had one clear, lucid thought. "Shit."


The fall seemed to take forever. The landing jarred my teeth and the pain shot through me like a knife. I rolled to a sitting position and held my knees, eyes closed, cursing a blue streak. I opened my eyes and stared at the knobs under my jeans. I was alone and afraid. So afraid. The "what ifs" began to parade through my head: What if I'd busted my kneecaps? What if I needed to go to the emergency room? What if I needed surgery? What if I couldn't walk? What if I couldn't work? Who would take care of me?


Gradually I became aware of a white construction truck that had pulled up to the curb. A man yelled out of the window, "Are you OK? I saw you fall...do you need help?" I wanted to be brave and wave him on. I didn't want to be needy and pathetic. But it hurt, oh, so much.


"I don't know," I yelled back. "I don't know."

He came up to me, stopping within a few feet. A nice-looking man about my age, with gentle eyes and a concerned look on his face. "Do you need help to stand?" he asked. "Yes, I'll let you help me," I finally said.


Grasping my wrists, he pulled me steadily to my feet, waited while I got my balance, then let go. I tested my legs. It hurt, but I could move. I could walk. I told him I thought I'd be alright.


"I'm Tom," he said, and pointed to his truck, which had the name of his construction company on the side. "If you need help, you can call." I thanked him, profusely, and assured him I'd be fine. There's no way I'd call him, a stranger, to come back and help me. Still, I memorized the name on the truck. After waiting until I limped up the steps and sat in my rocker on the porch, he drove off, with me waving and smiling bravely. Then I slowly went inside.


That's when the tears came.


Tears because I had fallen, to be sure, but mostly tears because Tom had shown me compassion. And because he was a man. And he was strong. And made me feel safer and less vulnerable. And I miss having that in my life. I don't want to admit it, but now that I have, does it make me any less independent?

Chance Almost-Meeting

I saw you today.

After almost four years of living in the same city and never catching so much as a glimpse of you, I was standing outside of the grocery store where I’d gone to pick up medicine for my baby granddaughter, and there you were. As I was standing there, trying to remember where I’d parked the car, you drove by- so close that if I’d so much as stepped off the sidewalk into the parking lot you would’ve either had to have stopped for me or run me over. But by the time my mind took all the images and memories and emotions and unscrambled them to form a coherent thought: It’s you- you had driven by.

I saw you not look at me. I saw you stare straight ahead with the unlikely resolve and focus of a man whose only goal in life was to find a parking spot on a Saturday afternoon at the grocery store. I saw your jaw clench, and I knew that you had seen me. It would’ve been impossible not to- I was wearing my ridiculously bright green jacket and standing by myself on the sidewalk about three feet from your truck as you drove slowly by. Yes, you had seen me, and now you were ignoring me.

Even so, I took a few steps after your truck and raised my arm in a pseudo-wave. In case you looked in the rearview mirror. In case you hadn’t seen me and were clenching your jaw because you had been baking and needed the one item you were out of and now you had to drive to the grocery store to fetch it. In case you wanted to say hi. In case you were willing to forgive.

But I realized that if that were the case, I would’ve seen brake lights. I would’ve seen you roll down your window and lean out to call to me. I would’ve gone over to your truck to tell you to go ahead and park, I’ll wait. And, in true Dan Fogelberg style, we would’ve exchanged pleasantries, given each other a quick synopsis of what we’d been doing since the Horrible Christmas Day that I moved out, and maybe would’ve decided to go grab coffee after you’d bought whatever it was you had come for.

There were no brake lights. No flash of recognition- I didn’t see you there! No window rolling down.

I walked to my car and stood next to it, watching you stride across the parking lot with the head-down determination not to look up and see me watching you, and you quickly went through the automatic doors. I considered going back in. I considered stealing behind you in the frozen foods and touching you on your sleeve. You would turn, and perhaps smile-Oh my gosh, how are you! And we’d talk.

But I know you very well. I know when you are angry and I recognize the closed-up body language of Don’t Touch Me. I’m familiar with the way you shut me out and refuse to talk to me as punishment for some real or imagined slight. I remember the consequences of approaching you when you were like this, trying to communicate. To appease your temper. To ask for forgiveness, even when I had nothing to be forgiven for. And I remember my fear.

I do not have your phone number any more, and I will not email you at work. I will take this chance almost-meeting for what it was: A reminder. This is why you left, my mind whispers. Just drive away. And so, I did.