Market Thoughts

The man pushed the shopping cart through the market, silently listening to the squeek of the bad tire. He contemplated the peace in his life, the wonder at feeling new again. His friends and family still intact.
A sale on pasta caught his eye. One pound for ninety-nine cents. He tossed a few boxes into his cart, next to the block of cheese he had just chosen.
He paid no attention to the other people in the store, other than how close they were to his proximity. He could tell which were at peace and which were not. The stress on their face, the wrinkles etched so deep, and the tension in their body as they walked by him, could all be felt. He almost didn't even have to look at them as they passed by to feel their turmoil.
He wondered what was going on in their lives. He wondered whether things would work out for them.
His mind wandered.
He wondered what she was doing at that very moment.
Was she burning some lunch?
He chuckled at the thought.
He almost runs into a stack of ice chests. Looks around to see if anyone noticed. Good. No one did. What would they have done if they had seen? He really didn't care.
He felt that empty spot just then. The one that has been there so long, it is a part of him as if something were actually there.
An acquaintance passes by and says, "Hello.", but doesn't stop. The man "howdys" back. He doesn't stop either. He's not in the mood for company. Alone suits him at the moment.
He opens the refrigerator door and retrieves some creamer for his coffee in the morning. He places it next to the cheese in the basket.
The rest of the visit to the market becomes a blur, as his mind wanders backward and forward through time. He revisits places with her. He attends plays. He visits Stonehenge.
He pays almost silently for his goods.
His minds shifts back to the present as he saunters through the large sliding doors, back into the sun and the peacefulness that fills him with its warmth.
It's a good day.

*****

Quote for the day:

"I have you and even if we never meet or ever see each other, we have left our thumbprints in the thick, moist clay of each other's lives. " -- Hugh Elliott, Standing Room Only weblog, May 6, 2003