She came in around one. Afro Canadian woman. Mid fifties. Pushing/dragging the little galvanized grocery cart. Jam packed
She had on a thick winter coat. Only October, but she didn’t have a middle weight autumn one. Thick knitted headpiece. Knitted gloves yanked off for the wallet and price.
Fussing around in her purse for the cash. One bill and a mess of coin jingling. In subdued tone she ordered her selection from the East Indian counter guy. No hesitation in her asking. Obviously this was a regular Thursday jaunt. She did not raise her eyes much.
This restaurant was across the parking lot from the Talize Bargain Store. Lots of good deals. Clothes or appliances or books and DVDs.
Was she employed? Mid-day, weekday. Who could guess. But I took a wager that everything was by London Transit bus. Perhaps long wait in the cold. Perhaps a transfer in the route. Probably she would sit in the seat first behind and across from the driver. The Chatter’s seat. It was an express bus. The high school kids in large number would enter in their gaggles. Yelling. Pushing. Giggling. Spitting. Strutting. Romancing.
The woman could only sigh, remembering her own innocence and youth. Perhaps smile at one or two of the teens who were shy. You know how past pains would provide the present currency for engagement and simple comfort. She had often needed comfort. She could give it.
One of God’s meek and marginalized heroines. Invisible to many. But not to Him. One day up yonder her clothes and countenance would be spectacular. Her friendships incomparable. Music and song, often. Sorrow and sighing all gone. Glory face to face.
For all I knew, she came alive Wednesdays and Sundays at some church. With a family of faith. Clapping. Soaking. Hoping.
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