Grocery Store

Jamie was next to me. We had finished paying for our groceries, about $8 worth of stuff to get back home and cook for breakfast. I was walking away when the man behind me put out his hand and said, "Thank you." I said, "For what?" He said, "Thank you." Then, "I have a son at home. I try to take him everywhere I can."

I felt a little bit like a stolen moment, really. It should have belonged to someone else. To MyFella, or any of his siblings. MyFella has mentioned moments like this before, when someone understands. They speak, they nod, maybe they pass each other with a knowing look, not unlike the unspoken rule that Jeep owners always wave, however slightly, at other Jeep owners as they pass.

MyFella said he does it. He'll smile as he passes strangers who are in the mix of company not unlike Jamie. Peter Pan like, the children whose bodies grow, but whose minds don't. He smiles because he understands it all in one encompassing heart beat. He understands what the doctors told them when he was little. He understands what it's like to turn your head for just a moment in the grocery store to have him wander off. He understands what it's like to translate his sentences to friends. But he also understands the sheer joy of the simplest things. In Jamie's case, it's the constant thrill of going - anywhere. To town, to get gas, or just driving with the windows down. Or the way Jamie delights in helping wash dishes and fold clean laundry. Or the smile on his face when he holds a cat or puppy. It's all there, all the joy mixed in with it all. I suppose it's that way for every parent. But this is markedly different, knowing your child will never grow up as others do. And the shared knowledge is marked by simple acts like a nod or a handshake.

I made my choice long ago. I knew MyFella came as a package deal, and Jamie was part of the package. To me, some years later, taking Jamie with me at 7a.m. to the grocery was just as normal as going to the grocery.

But receiving the look, the handshake, it was new to me. Unknown ground. I didn't realize it for what it was until it was spelled out to me. "I have a son like him. I try to take him everywhere I can." I felt like I was cheating, that it belonged to Jamie's parents or to MyFella. I wondered if I should explain, "We're not family. We're friends." But I suppose that could be part of the same overall thoughts that the family might have. Who will his friends be?

I've seen people all over town smile at the sight of Jamie and call him by name. Just 20 minutes earlier at another stop, a couple had been engaging Jamie while I was distracted. When I turned my head to speak, the wife said, "We know him." I should have known, because the husband understood Jamie's speech. I should have caught on faster that they know him.

But I guess the simplest thing is also the most important thing. It was my morning, about an hour, with Jamie. We ran two errands while the word was still waking. And I suppose for all that it was, the moment that would come at the grocery store was my moment to be had. It was my gift from that stranger. He didn't care if our surnames were the same or not. He could tell we were friends. Are friends. He could tell as Jamie held the bacon and I held the milk that we live as friends.

I won't ever understand all that they think and feel, the families with their own Peter Pan's in their midst. I missed the first 40 years of Jamie's life. But the man he is today, I understand as well as I understand so many of my friends. And now I feel like I'm part of some kind of secret family. We nod to each other in passing.

Whoever that man is, I thank him, too.