Tonight, I struggle to find a story to tell.
While sitting in traffic on my way home from the gym, I noticed a woman in a motorized wheelchair making her way down the sidewalk. She was alone. Her beautiful white hair blew in the crisp March breeze. Her ears were covered by the kind of earmuffs that go across the back of the head instead of over the top. She was impeccably dressed in white slacks, fashionable shoes, and a tailored coat. Her legs were very thin. I wondered where she was headed and where she had come from. I know the area, and there are no residences close by.
The traffic was slow, as always. She was making pretty good time and passed me a few times as I inched along. She seemed to know the bumps and places to avoid as she navigated the frequent car entrances. Car dealerships, restaurants, Walmart, and a few hotels line this stretch of road. The subway runs above ground down the middle of the highway. Had she come from a hotel? Was she headed to the subway? Why was she alone?
I marveled at her apparent independent spirit which would take her out on a blustery day at rush hour. I hoped she was meeting a friend. Did she have children? Would they worry if they knew she was out alone?
Then I wondered if I had need of a wheelchair, would I be a brave and independent woman?