Bravery at the Grocery Store

The other morning I was at Winn Dixie making the weekly produce run for work.  Because I am there so early on a weekday, the people that are shopping are pretty much those picking up something before work, or if they work the night shift, grabbing something before heading home.  Rarely do I see the harried moms with one kid holding her hand, the other riding in the cart, and the third tearing boxes off of the shelves.

The store isn't busy.  There's one register with a human and one self-checkout open.  Occasionally I will have a disgruntled patron standing behind me with a few items in their arms waiting for my cart full of my fruits, vegetables, and bleach to be rung up.  If I see them and I haven't started to check-out yet, I'll always offer them the option of moving ahead of me.  It surprises me when, out of a sense of fair play, my offer is rejected.  I can see the wheels turning in their heads while they are trying to decide what the right thing to do is.

That morning, I noticed a man with short salt and pepper hair in his late 50s.  Early 60s at the most. His right arm was tucked against his chest, his hand bent downward at the wrist.  His right leg wasn't in sync so when he walked, his foot never fully left the floor causing it to drag.  It was one of those errant children lagging behind the group.  The one that the mother has to keep turning around to check on and urging to keep up.  My guess was he suffered a stroke.

His face was stoic as he went about the store.  No smile.  Just business concentrating on the task at hand.  I wondered how many physical therapy sessions he endured to get him to where he was now.  Surely he was just as brave during those as he was now grocery shopping.  For a man that exuded self-sufficiency, I'm sure this was a battle he didn't like fighting every day.  Maybe minute to minute, depending on what he was asking his body to do.  Always capable, now having to be patient with himself.

Having finished shopping and with my trunk loaded up, I was back in my car ready for the drive to work.  After stowing the grocery receipt in the usual place in my tote bag, I looked up and saw him again.  He had walked his empty cart to the parking lot repository.  For him, there wasn't a question as to whether to leave it in the grass or in a parking space.  His sense of right and wrong couldn't, wouldn't, be denied no matter the extra effort it took.

I watched him walk, way too quickly, back to his car. I was scared for him that he would trip and fall as he pushed himself.  His drive to be normal, to not let this affliction dominate his life, was more powerful than taking the risk of the humiliation of falling down.  He made it without a mishap and I let go of the breath I was holding.

I hope he is good to himself.  I hope he doesn't hate who he is now.  I hope he defines himself by his bravery, not his loss.  I hope he continues to recover.  I hope he smiles.

Jailer

I woke up with a need so great.
An animal caught in a trap
Blood dripping down the iron cage walls
Trying to claw my way out.

Looking through the bars
For the face of my jailer
The only one that can set me free
From the gouge I have made
From pacing, pacing, pacing.

I can hear the keys now
Jingle jangle hitting his hip
As he walks down the hall
To free me from my cage.

I will be his.  Hurry.