Her back was to me at the corner. Standing in the light rain, a plastic grocery bag at her feet, I could see the damp edges of the cardboard sign. I pulled over, hoping no one would clobber the backend of my car.
I typically carry warmth, comfort, and a bit of chocolate on the passenger seat to hand out. Today, I’ve got a newly laundered washcloth, pair of wooly socks, and leftover Halloween candy tucked into the folds of a towel secured with a rubber band. It a cheerful minty green package, quite fluffy, though clearly worn in spots.
She turns to my the shout from the car window. “Do you want a towel?” As she walks over and leans down into the driver’s side door, I take-in her pockmarked face, the gaps in her mouth, exposed jagged teeth (or what’s left of 'em) and her soaked attire. Her smile doesn’t quite hit the eyes. I scramble for the ziplock that holds some intimateware I haven’t inventoried.
I’d just collected some items from the Senior Apartment complex down the road. The ladies come to my "Decluttering for Good Class," baring gifts. They're always so generous, though they live in subsidized housing. Hardback mysteries, washed-out linens, mishmash of homemade knit hats, a 10 cup coffeemaker, light pink slippers, sweatshirts with bears or puppies on the front, jean stretch pants, poly summer tops, and a pack of Christmas cards with Jesus, Mary, and Joseph on the cover.
“I only have a little shopping bag” she claims as she points. “Don’t worry, I have a HUGE plastic bag for you!”
“Do you happen to have a blanket, we’re still sleeping outside.” I’d forgotten about the fuzzy off-salmon colored blanket underneath all of the paraphernalia. “Yes, I actually DO have a blanket!” I unearth it and another bigger nylon bag to wrap up her early Christmas gifts.
I asked her first name ("Rae," she declares) and told her to be safe. I got a little nod of recognition and drove on my way, a little merrier than before.