While walking home from the grocery store today, I was feeling a little bedraggled. Heavy backpack on my tight shoulders, other bag clutched in my hand which was aching from typing/writing. Disgruntled with the rain. Disgruntled with some old heartaches that had dropped in unexpectedly for tea (and, as always, stayed too long, talked too much, passive aggressively indicated what was wrong with me, and didn’t help to clean up–punks).
In any event, as I walked in this state, I heard, in a gentle voice from my left, a voice that could just as easily have been saying, “Hey, you dropped your glove,” or maybe not even addressing me at all–except, I noticed, it was for me–the words, “I love you.”
A dude in dreadlocks, with soft eyes and powder blue pants, on his bike, casting a slight smile in my direction, said to me, “I love you” as he rode by.
No seedy undertones or cruel overtones, no stopping to request anything afterwards, just part of his ride, part of his ride intersecting with my ride, that happened to be a walk.
An intersection, an intercession. An intersectory and intercessory kindness. A gift, freely given, on the way. I love you. Part of it all.
Right then, I smiled wide, I forgot my shoulders hurt, I took a deep breath, and my heart whispered, “I think it might be safe out there after all” and gently flexed open her wings, just a little.
Not a big deal, really, and at the same time, a pretty big deal. Something I don’t want to forget, and so something I choose to share.
So, here’s me, intersecting with you, on my way into the evening, turning to say this: I love you.
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