A strange encounter

I should have written this in March when it happened...but I had forgotten I had such a thing as a blog. Which might mean I have no business having one, but that's another entry.

It is March 1st, a dreary day in Boston, and I am walking around the Jamaica Pond in deep, difficult conversation with the woman I am dating at the time. We are trying to figure out whether it is worth the effort for something so new--we are, afterall, lesbians. Mid-sentence, her battery dies, and I am left hunching my shoulders against the cold, fighting back tears and the disappointments of all my lost loves who gather like ghosts huddled behind me in these moments. The sun, which was peaking out from dark clouds at the start of my walk, disappears and I think it's only right. And then it begins to hail, the sky hurling tiny chunks of ice at me, stinging at my cheeks, and this seems right, too. And funny. I'm overcome with a giggle at how well the gods seem to know me. Of course, hail. Of course, now.

For a moment I am gentler with myself as the weather is harsh, sending the ghosts scattering into the woods. My eyes are wet but nothing falls. I round the bend along the Jamaica Way, almost done with my lap, and before me is an older man--maybe 75--in a bright red parka and mittens. His hair is white and his cheeks are more red than rosy. He's cold. I don't look away like I normally would, and he waves his hands out in front of him, all mittens and expectant eyes. "Hello, hello!" he says.

"Hello." I'm afraid he's mistaken me for someone he knows. He seems, potentially, crazy, but I remind myself this could be because he's being friendly during a hail storm.

"I wonder," he says, "if you might put my hood on for me." He raises his arms to show me he cannot reach behind his head.

I assess him a moment longer, comtemplate the risks, assure myself I am stronger than he is, and decide helping him is worth the potential dangers. I come in close to him, where I can get at his hood, which is lined with fake fur and has an elastic band around it. I am close enough to embrace him. I have to pull the hood up over his head and the elastic band and the fact that his coat is zipped up to his chin make this harder than seems reasonable. Only as I'm struggling to pull it up over his head do I notice the ear-flaps, which I tug on. And then he's in and somehow I'm smoothing his coat at his shoulders; it seems the right thing to do, like he is my five year old son.

He smiles at me as we stand inches from each other, looks me right in the eye, and then turns to walk away. Before he's more than a step or two he turns back. "Hey," he says, winking. "Send me the bill!" and then he walks on. And I'm left with this sweet little moment, an unexpected intimacy with a complete stranger during a hail storm, and I wonder what the gods are trying to tell me.