The grocery store is unexpectedly packed. A random Monday afternoon, lines backed up to the freezer aisle.
The woman behind me makes small talk. “It’s not even a holiday weekend,” I tell her.
“I know! I don’t know why it’s so busy.”
The man behind us rests his basket on the edge of the display bin and sighs. His eyes are bright in the wrinkles that line his face; he has a familiar air around him, but I’m sure I’ve never seen him before.
“You’re very quick,” the woman in front of me tells the cashier. The cashier is young, wide eyes behind round-framed glasses, a cheery smile reaching all the way through her eyes to her heart.
“I try,” the cashier says, scanning items and bagging them with a careful efficiency.
It’s my turn then, and she scans my cheese and my pasta and asks if I want a bag.
“Yes please,” I say, and she adds my things to a brown paper bag and hands me the receipt.
I step away from the register and pause for another woman pushing a cart. “Oh I’m so sorry,” she says, “I didn’t mean to barrel down on you.”
“It’s all right,” I say. “I saw you coming.”
She smiles and I see that her smile, in a sweet tired face, reaches up to her eyes too.
I was at a school earlier in the day. A little boy watched me take my camera out of the bag and wipe the lens clean.
“My mom has a camera,” he announced. “But it’s in storage.”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah.” He nodded emphatically and bustled off outside to join his class.
I had a meeting tonight. I was there to observe and document, not participate; I tucked myself away in a corner and pulled out my notepad.
And then I watched.
The folks there milled about and talked amongst themselves. One couple stood out; both white haired, he’s serious and she’s sparkly, but they stood close together, a complementary pair. When she stood up to speak she rested her hand easily on his shoulder and he softened into her touch, still focused on the conversation. They exist with the ease of long familiarity, like they’ve known each other since before time began.
And there are others, too. They divide themselves into little groups, occupying the same spaces, but all so very different.
I’ve been around hundreds of people today in a very few hours, all things considered. And on my drive home I got to thinking about all the stories each of them hold inside them.
I am a passing flicker in each of their stories, if they even noticed me. And in a few months I probably won’t remember them.
But I’ll remember how I felt. I’ll remember how they made me feel: safe in a sea of strangers.
We’re all just human.