It was one of those hazy, humid southern summer mornings that alerts all of the locals that their familiar daily dosage of swelter would not be taking an unexpected day off. Creaking and bumping along its pot-holed Second Street route, the city bus ambled slowly, the tiny drafts emanating from its small open windows offering passengers little defense from the building wave of heat that was sure to be the harvest of this July day.
In one seat a wispy old man sat clutching a bouquet of fresh flowers. Sitting across the aisle was a young girl whose moist and reddened eyes while fixed on the old man’s flowers, seemed simultaneously to be lost in a universe of melancholy. The old man felt sorry for the little lady. It was obvious that she was carrying some unknown heavy burden. Perhaps, thought the old man, having some familiarity with the feeling, she is suffering the deep pangs of rejection, failure, or loss. Her shoulders were slumped, her head drooped such that her chin was resting on her neck, and, of course, her red eyes betrayed the tears that had obviously copiously flowed from them recently; eyes that now were transfixed upon the flowers encircled by the old man’s gnarled hands. While not wanting to disturb her space without invitation, he hoped she would lift her eyes to his so that he might offer her at least a comforting smile, but she remained as rigid as a statue.
The bus began to slow and as the old man glanced out the window he saw that this was his stop. As he slowly rose, an impulsive thought overtook him. He gently laid his bouquet of flowers on the girl’s lap.
His actions broke her catatonic spell as she turned her head and eyes toward the old man. “I can see you love the flowers,” he stammered, “and I think my wife would like for you to have them. I’m on my way to see her right now and I’ll tell her I gave them to someone that I felt needed them more than she. Knowing her as long and as well as I have, I can assure you that she will understand and agree with my gifting them to you.” The girl clutched the flowers to her heart. Her face turned up to the man and a tiny hint of a smile appeared upon her lips. In a soft voice, flowing with appreciative emotion, she said, “Thank you kind sir! And thank your wife too.”
The old man returned the smile and patted the girl gently on her shoulder as he replied, “You’re quite welcome…from the both of us.”
With that, the young girl watched as the old man slowly got off the bus and walked through the gate of a small cemetery.
You cannot do a kindness too soon, for you never know how soon it will be too late.
– Ralph Waldo Emerson
Have an AWE-full Weekend!
William J. “Bill” Bacqué