Sitting in Panera’s, waiting for a client, I see a table spilling celebration. A thin teen in a starched white shirt places his hand on the arm of an older gentleman who has removed his suitcoat and stands sipping a cup of water. Their faces strain to hold their joy. Two women, one grey, one blond, set salads on the table then turn to embrace.
I see my client crossing the street with his husband, one reaching to keep the other from the path of a speeding car. My client lifts his eyes, notices me watching, and raises an arm to salute. Later, after an hour of talking business, my client excuses himself to use the facility, leaving his husband and me alone at the table. We’ve met before but I do not know him well. He leans forward and says, You’ll watch out for him, won’t you? He refers not to outcome but to the potential of abuse. I pledge my faithful protection. He dabs the corner of one eye with a paper napkin.
After I leave them, I drive to the grocery store. Halfway down the block, I bring my car to a sudden stop. A woman has pushed her walker into the street with shaky steps, guided by a companion’s arm circling her waist beneath a hump straining against the fabric of her blouse. The man bends his head with its thin brown hair to briefly speak to the lady, then glances towards my vehicle. I nod to show that I’ve stopped, I see them. He lifts a hand in response. They cross and continue down the street. I park and slide from the car, watching the pair move slowly towards JULIAN. I’m jealous. It’s my favorite restaurant.
With two half-bags of groceries, I make it home, finally, a half-hour before the presidential debates which I don’t plan to watch. I rummage around in the back of the Prius before I pull it to the bottom of the driveway, extracting a paper bundle that I’ve been carrying since Saturday. After I put away the groceries, I move to the table, and open the florist paper in which I’ve wrapped the flowers that I took from my in-laws’ grave on Saturday when I brought a fresh bouquet. Last week’s roses never bloomed, and did not suffer the mangling from ducks and deer that I’ve seen time after time. They faded and died in pristine form. I lift each one and settle them, carefully, in a pottery vase.
I don’t watch the debates but I follow social media commentary about them. If I were inclined to complain about anything, it would be the lamentable state of our nation. But if I have learned one solid, immutable lesson from these last three years, it is that some things do not deserve the effort of my lament.
It’s the tenth day of the thirty-fourth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.
