I see you. Often.
Day after day last spring, we were on the same street at the same time. I was driving my teenage son to school, and you were walking on the sidewalk, pushing your son in his stroller while holding your dog’s leash.
I thought you were your son’s father at first. You had a man’s haircut, but that impression lasted for a split second. Until I saw you didn’t have eyebrows. On another cool spring day, your head was covered with an unmistakable chemo scarf.
We passed each other on that same stretch of road for many weeks; each of us on our own morning journey. Though we never made eye contact or waved, I sent some sort of well wishes to you whenever I saw you. I can’t say I prayed; I don’t think I did. I hope I was a quiet tether in the way that so many women were mine nearly twelve years ago.
I remember seeing you in the early summer. You had very short hair that looked like a sassy cut. Only it was sassy growth. It made me smile. I thought you were well on your way, and that made me so happy. I let the tether loosen a bit.
Then this winter, after the first snowstorm of the season, I was driving down the same street where I often saw you walking. In a front lawn to my right, a grown-up figure stood smiling over a little figure that was rolling around in the snow. It was you and your son. I didn’t know you actually lived on this street, and I was surprised to see you here rather on the sidewalk. Your smile was wide looking down at your little boy. Then, you turned your head and looked into the wind.
Your hair, a bit longer, lifted on the side of your head when you turned. Your smile was so true; it was nearly audible. I remember it myself: that first moment when new hair is long enough to lift in the wind. The giddy sensation of each hair follicle moving in a new direction for the first time. The tiniest, most unusual upward lift and tug. So seemingly insignificant yet intense on your scalp. I remember it. A tickling delight that toddlers must feel when they first experience the sensation.
Seeing you that day reminded me to be grateful when the wind lifts my hair.
***
From Power and Prayer, written November 10, 2009
“Fortunately, every person I reached out to who had experienced cancer has grasped a hold of me. Each has cast a rope around my waist, destined not to let me sink. They are pillars standing on the shore of a rocky sea they’ve already sailed. From family members to women who were mere acquaintances or absolute strangers, I have strong and formidable women who hold the ropes that are stabilizing me.”