The people at the self-checkout station were jammed together as they struggled with the machines to make their purchases.
I went to approve a woman’s wine purchase. She was a senior citizen like me, and I teased her, asking if she was at least twenty-one–because I’m cute like that.
“Oh yes,” she said, adding what many people tell me: “I wish I were twenty-one again.”
“Do you really want to go back,” I challenged with a laugh.
Most people take a beat and agree that it might not be so great to return to an earlier age, although it would be nice to have the energy of our youth.
But this lady answered differently.
“Oh yes, I would go back,” she said.
“Not me,” I said, and I laughed again.
“I would so I could have my son back,” she said, almost matter-of-factly.
I’d been keeping watch over all the people, but I paused to look only at her.
She was weary, yet she radiated a particular strength I’ve seen in women like her—mothers who had lost a child and experienced crippling grief yet somehow managed not just to endure but come back with ferocious energy, determined to make the world better.
She became the person that others turned to in their moments of grief.
I saw this in her. And she saw that I saw it.
“The simplest things (like a wine purchase and a chatty cashier) can bring it all back,” I said.
“It’s okay,” she hastened to say. “I know I’ll get to see him again.” (I presumed she meant heaven).
“But,” she continued, “I would go back if I could have him again.”
“Who wouldn’t?” I said. “I hope today has joy for you, as well, ma’am.”
She offered her sad, forceful smile and said, “I hope that for you too, sir.”
She reached up to put a hand on my shoulder. I could feel the strength in her touch.
“You are a nice man,” she said, “Thank you for talking with me.” And then she faded into the crowd.
Deep Calls 