I was at the store this morning, buying a ridiculously expensive pillow, because I have apparently reached the age where you can injure yourself while sleeping.

An older African American man and I reached the register at the same time. There was a moment of awkwardness as we both scrambled to move out of the others way, him telling me to go ahead, me insisting he go first. An ordinary encounter in extraordinary times. We were both (I think) overly aware of our bodies and both nervous to offend the other.

I finally convinced him to go ahead of me, confiding that it was not out of politeness but rather shame. He raised an eyebrow and I held up my pillow. “I am embarrassed for you to see how much I am about to spend on this pillow…..but my neck…..” I trailed off gesturing to what I assumed by the pain must be obvious knots.

He grinned behind his mask, the kind of big smile you don’t have to see to feel. And I smiled back behind mine. Two people connected by the joys of getting old. “And I’m getting this too” I held up the t-shirt I grabbed on a whim proclaiming Hope Is Not Cancelled. “I don’t really need it….”

“I think you do” he assured me.
And I agreed.