Dear Step-sitter,
That’s a good place to prop, under the overhang at the back of the corner shop, shaded from sun and protected from rain; the steps wide and deep enough for you to spread out a bit and lean back.
When you're there, you seem to own that spot: you look so comfortable, so much at ease, so much at home. Nothing in your manner says ‘homeless’ or ‘destitute’. (Though your clothes perhaps do.) Nothing in your expression says ‘lonely’ or ‘sad’. (Though you are always there alone.) There’s not a hint of either shame or resentment.
I’ve seen you there so many times, you almost don’t feel like a stranger. But I don’t know your name, nor you mine. I know nothing about you. All I know of you, or you of me, is what we see of each other in our brief encounters. And I can’t exactly say I see you there often – it can be months between times. It’s just that those times now span years, decades.
Yesterday I walked past with a friend, discussing the suddenly hot weather.
‘The forecast’s for thunderstorms,’ I say as we turn the corner, passing you.
‘We need it though,’ you comment, catching my eye, raising the bottle you’re drinking from in quick salute.
‘True,’ I say, and we smile and nod at each other before my friend and I cross to our cars by the park.
It’s not the first time we’ve exchanged a word or two. You always speak first – invariably something cheery – and I respond. But we don’t chat. I’m always on my way somewhere else, and I don’t stop more than a moment.
Once you remarked admiringly on my colourful dress. I like tie-dye. So do you. I thanked you with a smile, and went on my way feeling warmed, brightened.
Sometimes you don’t say anything; neither do I. We don’t always even exchange a glance. Sometimes it seems you might want to be left in private thought. I leave it up to you.
Everyone else in the little town does the same. It seems we all have an understanding with you. I hope we do.
I remain,
One of Many Passers-by
Written for FridayWritings #54: Writing to a Stranger, at Poets and Storytellers United.
Ok so now I'm imagining someone will print this and hand it to that man... wonder what he'll make of it!!! Life is full of tiny, perhaps inconsequential, connections ...little tendrils holding the whole forest together.
ReplyDeleteBut what if he can't read? I just did a hasty rewrite of par 2 (plus subsequent tweaking to get word count right again) to make it clearer he probably is down-at-heel despite his confident manner.
DeleteAnd yes – important point, in any case, about the forest and tendrils.
DeleteI like this Rosemary, sooo descriptive in many ways. I can see him, but also the fellow we had walking the streets of the town where I went to high school. He always wanted to shake hands, I would, but talked only in mumbling noise syllables.
ReplyDelete..
I expect every town has people who don't quite fit the norm, yet are pretty much taken for granted. Our collective lack of curiosity means their stories are never really known.
DeleteI really enjoyed this, Rosemary. I love that your stranger and you actually exchange words, and no one think is mad. In New York City, people tend to give you all sorts of funny looks if you approach a stranger in the street or if said stranger talks to you--some of us do it anyway. And like you, find our hearts a bit warmer for it.
ReplyDeleteI sank soundly into your letter, not wanting to leave the comfort of what you were sharing. This is beyond lovely, truly capturing the essence of this man ... of you, the passerby.
ReplyDeleteYour comment is lovely too! Thank you, Helen.
DeleteThere used to be a guy at a particular corner that my husband and I would see as we drive by. We’d wave at him and he’d wave back. All smiles.
ReplyDeleteNice!
DeleteIt is difficult to start a conversation with this man you see all the time, and I'm sure it is difficult for him, for fear of being rebuked. Great letter, Rosemary!
ReplyDeleteThank you. Yes, good point. There is goodwill, yet the scant interaction is also quite superficial.
Delete