At the bird store we go to for Piper’s food and toys in Burlington, New Jersey, Bird Paradise, those of us with feathered friends find a sense of community in a world that is slanted towards cats and dogs. Waiting for my husband to look around, I noticed a woman standing in front of the huge selection of bird food mixes, all made by the store. “What kind of bird do you have?,” I asked. Turning to look at me she replied, “I actually have two. A parakeet and a baby caique. How about you?” “A conure named Piper,” I answered proudly. She then shared, “My friend showed me a conure online but I can’t get another bird right now. I’m going through chemo.”
Sh*t. “I’m sorry. I will be thinking about you,” I promised, meaning it. Eff cancer. (I didn’t voice this out loud but was tempted to.) “Thank you,” she said.
Mister Rain had overheard the conversation and now walked up to join us. “You look good,” he told the woman. I couldn’t see her face but I was able to tell by the uplift in her voice that this made her happy. “Thank you. It’s been a good week,” she explained. “We have to take them when we can,” I empathized. “I hope there are a lot more of those,” I added, as I pushed my cart by her, touching her forearm and giving it a light squeeze. We wished each other a good rest of the day, continuing on our own paths that would most likely never cross again.
Finishing our shopping, checking out and loading the car with our purchases, we talked about the lady we had just met. “Everyone has a story,” my husband said, evoking the mantra we both know to be true. We drove to a nearby diner for lunch, hungry from the marathon spree on Piper’s behalf. When the bird store has a Christmas in July 30% off sale, you drop what you are doing, crank up the air conditioning in your vehicle and you go. After both of us enjoyed our hamburgers, we left our table, Mister Rain stopping to pay the bill while I slowly made my way back out into the summer humidity.
Three older people, two woman and one man, were coming up the ramp. The gentleman and one of the ladies was using a cane. I held the door open, telling them to “Take your time, but get on in out of the heat.” They all thanked me. “Hurry up!,” I heard my husband say from behind me. The trio immediately sensed he was kidding, all laughing loudly. “He’s with me,” I admitted as I rolled my eyes. One of the women responded, “I’ve got one of those too. Fifty-one years!,” she exclaimed, pointing at the man, going on to ask me, “How long for you?” “Thirty two,” I answered. “You’ve got a long way to go,” she commented. I groaned.
The other lady, the one with the cane, shouted out, “I’m 93! The kids want their money!” motioning to the couple, presumably one of which was her child. With all of us chuckling again, Mister Rain and I told them to take care, closing the door behind them once they were all inside the restaurant.
Yes, everyone has a story. Perhaps none more interesting than that of a stranger.
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