Carrying On, My Wayward Son

I am standing on a street corner, the Sun shining in blue skies, waiting for the walk sign. From behind me I hear, "Sir, the signals aren't working." Turning, I put a face to this ethereal warning. She is an older woman, a slight waddle to her cadence. Thanking her, I mention that the signal down the road also seemed to not work. Having stood through a cycle without the proper signal, it had necessitated crossing during a lull in traffic.

A friendly conversation ensues - our respective Irish heritages, growing up in St. Louis, whether aliens exist (yes!), religion and spirituality. In the course of this rapidly condensed discussion, I notice out of the corner of my eye that the walk signal, in fact, does work; I pay it no attention, allowing another cycle to pass to continue speaking with this woman. Retired, she lives on a frustratingly modest government pension after twenty years of service. An exhaustive complaint, but one that delivers a hearty, albeit exasperated, laugh.

At this moment, I had been feeling distraught, if not slightly apathetic, about my own career prospects - whether continuing as a writer or otherwise - and financial circumstances because of it. Over the course of several years, this has been a perpetual struggle and nothing unique; every writer has their relentless doubts, their discouraging failures. What is astounding is the sense of purpose renewed, rather than dismayed, by this random encounter. As Monty Python would counter, I am not one typically to look on the bright side of life.

Watching after her as she blissfully continued on her way down the street, a waddle once again in her cadence, I could only smile. I recalled the numerous conversations I had with my late mom during my years working as an opinion columnist, discussing a multitude of topics in order to clarify and orient my ideas and thoughts. Was this one of those moments? From one Irish woman to another, I can only speculate perhaps.

©2019 Steve Sagarra