Coldest
The temperature gauge in my car reads 3 degrees at too-early-in-the-morning as I make my way to the airport for a flight that few people know I’m taking. It’s been a rough few months and despite the freshness of the New Year, I find that I’m still licking wounds from 2009 when I approach the intersection where a left turn will take me to the airport.
The same homeless guy who’s always there, is there again this morning and he’s dressed not near warm enough, wearing a jacket from Good Will, the words ‘President’s Club’ in yellow script across the breast suggesting the previous wearers successful achievement in a now irrelevant sales pursuit.
It is crispy -nostril -hair kind of cold and even as I’m cursing myself for not having stopped at an ATM for cash that I will need to pay tolls later today, I’m digging through the change I keep in my car. I come up with less than a dollar. My car window cracks open in protest sounding like angry Rice Krispies and I motion the man to my car, apologizing for what little I have to offer, not wanting to offend him with such a small amount.
“I can use this to buy coffee” he tells me in the blast of arctic air between us.
When the light changes, I’m not even over the bridge before I’m staving off the wellspring of tears that never seem to be too terribly far from my eyes these days. I don’t have any make-up with me and can’t afford to be both fat and mascara stained today; the former I can do nothing about so I focus on the blink, blink, blink of the latter until the feeling passes.
I’ve been so caught up in the giant sucking sound that is my life right now that I’ve lost perspective. Irrespective of my job, my Bedouin life, or the failed and estranged relationships that litter my path like too many Starbucks sleeves, I’m not (yet) panhandling in 3 degree weather. So, you know, there’s that.
If love is fickle, hope might be one of life’s great constants. Certainly I hope the best for the people I love. I hope the best for our country and its leaders. I hope that the man I gave the spare change to finds some comfort from a warm cup of coffee… or a stiff drink.
Dogs and cats lick their wounds because their saliva has healing properties in it. So it is true with we two-legged creatures as well; we metaphorically lick our wounds, and find that there are opportunities for healing in unexpected places.
I found mine at the corner of Can’t Go Back and Stop Feeling Sorry for Yourself.
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