Queued Perspectives
One could hardly ask for a more picturesque January morning. My driver expertly maneuvers the hills and curves of the dry country roads he’s traversed hundreds of times. A horizon-crested sun bestows sparkle upon snow-covered farm fields and barn roofs. A deer crosses the road ahead, and we slow, in case she’s travelling with friends.
When we arrive at our destination, the man behind the wheel chooses a spot of unmarked blacktop with ample room to open the sedan’s doors wide. As he switches off the ignition, a red SUV cozies up to the passenger side of our sedan. Anger joins us in a flash. “Why would he do that?’ Idiot.” My driver turns the key and prepares to back up.
“Dad. It’s fine,” I say. I’m small and can easily get out. I’m aware his reaction stems from the past… not the present. His partner died only days ago. For many years he’s had to make sure the passenger door could be opened fully — to accommodate a walker.
When the SUV’s gray-haired couple walks past our windshield, I sense a blush of humility. Reaction softens into response. “Oh. I know him. Nice guy. I shouldn’t have called him an idiot.”
We get out of the car and make our way into the bustling, coffee-scented diner. Dad walks right over to greet the pair and motions for me to take a seat on a stool at the counter. I hear the couple offer condolences for his loss.
“How did you know?” he asks.
“Facebook.”
I sip from a coffee mug that appeared like magic as I ponder the phenomena of my elders keeping up with each other’s lives via a social media app. After our waitress takes hold of my father’s hands and offers condolences that reach into my soul, I learn that the couple is in their mid-eighties. With a bit of gentle back and forth, they eventually agree that they have been married for 63 years. They have four children, two of whom live next door to them. “That could be good, or bad,” I offer with a grin. One child stops by every evening to check in.
This delectable Norman Rockwell moment tastes as delicious as my maple-syruped pancake. In a flash of recognition I intuit that if one of my siblings sat and sipped in my place, they would tell this story quite differently, painting with the colors of their own nuances.
And I wonder…
Is it possible that you and I can experience the same outside stimuli, yet live in completely different worlds?