I wonder if he knows my dad.
I’m standing in the checkout line at my local Publix. Lane number 4, to be exact. I recall the number because it was only one of two lanes open on a busy Friday afternoon. My kids are waiting in the car, “I’ll be back in five minutes”, I tell them. “Well”, I think to myself as I stand in the long line waiting to purchase my items… “at least the little one can’t tell time yet”.
Standing here, noticing this middle-aged man as he’s noticing me. Not in a creepy way, just in a curious way. I see him look at my face, then back at his grocery items as they move forward on the conveyor belt, then back at my face again. Does he recognize me? Do I look like someone he knows? He probably knows a lot of people.
Dad knew a lot of people. Never really met a stranger, and he had managed to live a lot of life in his 68 years. We could travel three states to the left, then two north, then drive to a remote campground and still run into someone he worked with, served in the army with, had some crazy story about. That was my dad. He loved people. Enjoyed them. I bet he made a new friend nearly every day of his life.
Bringing myself back to the current moment, I observe the man in front of me again, as discreetly as I can, picking up some peanut M&Ms and tossing them into the green basket hanging from my arm. I want a Butterfinger but they don’t have any. M&Ms are a solid second choice.
If I had to describe the man succinctly, I would use the word gruff. I like the word. It’s a way of saying a person is rough around the edges, appearing unfriendly at first, but is actually quite soft on the inside. Likely only the ones closest to them get to see their warmth. Everyone else gets the gruff. I smile to myself. In my mind, it’s a compliment. I wonder if he would feel the same.
Longish salt-and-pepper hair peeks out from his camouflage-patterned trucker hat, hanging down in tight ringlets. He is wearing a red t-shirt and gray sweat pants, the thick cotton kind with good pickets and tight cuffs at the ankles. His face looks tired, but not unhappy. His hands look dry and calloused, his hairy arms polka dotted by years of sun exposure.
As he grabs the last few packages of deli meat from his grocery cart and tosses them onto the belt, he looks at me again. I stand still, curious about his curiosity. Again I wonder what he might be wondering. I half expect him to speak, but he never does. He pays for his items, gathers his grocery bags in his weather-beaten hands and makes his way to the exit.
****
Hours have passed. I am now engaged in an Instagram conversation with a dear friend. The man at Publix already a memory, the current crises my only focus.
My friend has lost her dad. She has just shared the news of his death with me.
The room spins in slow motion. I picture myself reaching out to her from the backside of a mirror. I live in a sort-of perverted Wonderland now, in this strange space called Grief. The rules are different here, and nothing looks or sounds or feels like it did before.
My friend has tripped and fallen down a hole, not because she chased a white rabbit but simply because she loved. I understand because I fell down the same hole two years ago. Now, I feel responsible to act as a sort-of guide to people in my life when they find themselves here.
I read the typed-out paragraphs explaining about what happened. I gingerly ask questions about her needs, whether she is eating, are the arrangements made, how can I help? She sends me heart emojis and crying emojis and typos because her brain feels like mushed bananas. (It’s OK, I tell her, we’re all mushed bananas here.)
We exchange stories about our cool fathers and their Earthly adventures, their mustaches and machismo and the private jokes we shared with them. She posts old pictures of her Papa for all her friends to see. She travels to her childhood home to take care of funeral things and hug her family.
She needs quiet, I know. I don’t reach out to her for days, weeks.
The next time we talk, I ask her how she feels. She is good-ish, she says. Wounded, but breathing. Yes, I tell her. I know what you mean. She says she is grateful her father was such a good man and that he loved her so well. She tells me she believes he is in Heaven now, with the ones who went before him, probably making new friends and having great new adventures.
Only one thought crosses my mind as I imagine the scene:
I wonder if he knows my dad.
Attitude Soup 