Ten fingers, then two fingers.
Ten, then two again—in case I didn't get it the first time. Oh, I love it when
I can be the one who understands. I gave the man a twisted fist and two fingers
(10 + 2), his bed number, 12. He stalled, then nodded, surprised. I gave him
the "surprise" sign, and he smiled. He lowered a hand from his chin,
"thank you."
What a lovely gift for me!
I served soup and pizza (and
candies) for 2 hours, with one hand wrapped to a fare thee well in post-surgery
bandages. Spilled a little. Nobody noticed. Now that I think about it, I could
have been in a body cast, because it is understood that nothing can touch the lady behind the counter as harshly as life
has touched those on the other side.
Scanning the names chart, I
noticed one "legally blind," and just then he was standing before me,
one eye straight ahead, the other elsewhere. Young, beautiful and helpless for
reasons I cannot see.
Then an energetic young man
limped to the counter, his cerebral palsy preceding him. And there were myriad
others who just appeared afflicted in some nameless way. I don't recall the
shelter having such an abundance of disabilities at once, but surely we have.
Only one child came for lunch.
My promised drawing was left at his other house (?); he'll bring it next time… He
was pleased with the toys I gave him. This child is happy way down deep; he's
whole and well loved.
The kitchen crew was just
right—Mr. A, Doug and me. My daughter arrived around 11:30 and helped for
awhile, making sack lunches. Mr. A made the soup—turkey and noodle soup—lots of
grease floating on top. Couldn't PAY me to eat it, but many asked for more, until
the pot was emptied. I found a box of Halloween candies in the pantry, so each
plate got candy. Tonight they're having pork chops.
I sense that Doug and Mr. A
are feeling a bit worn—this whole TURKEY SEASON is enough to do that to kitchen
personnel. I am blessed to not be on that payroll.
 |
| One hand or two, the soup tastes the same. |
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