The air was thick with the promise of snow as I pushed the grocery cart to my car. In a hurry to other errands, I was stopped by a voice behind me, calling.
“Miss! Miss!”
I turned to find one of the store employees.
“Did you lose these?”
A young man waved my gloves high above his head. Somewhere in my dashing around, I had dropped them. He had been kind enough to step into the frigid morning to return them.
“Thanks so much,” I said. “It seems I’m always losing them.”
“My dad was like that before he died,” he said. “Always forgetting his keys or gloves or something.”
I took him in — his slight stature, his wide grin of crooked teeth — and I could sense something a little different and special about him.
As I stood there, I knew I had a choice. I could politely thank him and run off to the next task on my to-do list. Or I could pause.
See him not just as a store clerk, but someone with a story, someone who had done a kind deed in returning my gloves, someone who was my brother in this human family.
“I’m so sorry you lost your dad,” I said. “I lost mine about three years ago. And I still miss him every day.”
I asked his name. Dave, he said. He asked my name.
He told me more about his dad. How he took care of him until he died and now it was just him and his mom.
He went on to tell me he was 51, but despite his age, he was childlike in his demeanor, with a wide-eyed innocence and openness to the moment.
“I live with my mom,” he went on, as cars drove through the lot, and my groceries still sat in the cart. “I told her I want to find a girlfriend. She doesn’t understand that when she dies, I won’t have anyone.”
His words pierced me. On many levels. He was alone and lonely.
And I understood more than he knew how much we all shared in that human yearning for companionship, for that “other” who would be there for us. Joe and I had been that for one another for many years until he died.
When this young man said, “I won’t have anyone” I felt it to my core. I now had no one either.
He shared more about his dad, how he liked visiting the Jersey shore, what he ate and drank, and I was again reminded of the little things we treasured about someone we’d lost — a look, a gesture, a phrase, a certain food they enjoyed.
Then, I paused and said I wanted to tell him something important. He listened, still grinning.
“I’m going to say a prayer that God sends you someone really good. Someone kind and loving.”
He lowered his head, blushed and thanked me. Then he asked if he could help load the groceries in my car. After he finished, he waved good-by and began gathering grocery carts.
I settled into the warmth of my car, gloves resting on the front seat. I had lost them.
But I had also found something deeper in that loss. A moment of connection. An understanding that we are at heart, the same.
Starting the car, I whispered a prayer for Dave. For those who are alone. That we all might find connection and companionship.
A few flakes began to fall.