Brought to You by the Letter A

I saw her on a Saturday afternoon, crouched low to the ground, peering around the wall of shelves at the art center, hoping to catch a glimpse. What does a person wearing a letter look like up close?

I saw her on a Friday morning as I walked around town, pushing my stroller and sipping my coffee, hanging posters in little shops and eateries for an upcoming PTO fundraiser. She crossed the street so as not to have to walk too closely, for fear of an actual conversation or a realization that perhaps I really wasn't all that crazy, as it has been claimed.

I saw her on a Saturday evening as I carried my plate back to the buffet line. She looked all around and then at the ground as she served out food, the letter making her to afraid to speak.

My husband saw him in a grocery store as he pushed a cart filled with the necessities of a newly formed family of six, his friend he used to drink beers with after monthly men's meetings. My husband doesn't have a letter, but he might as well have for the other man tried to get away so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet. Perhaps he needn't have his eyes opened that wide in alarm.

I saw the couple on a Monday morning in the discount store, eyeing me from the other end of the cereal isle. "Why have we not seen your family around church any more?" they ask. "Perhaps you should ask _____________" I respond. "He can tell you why." I turn away as they whisper between themselves.

I saw her on a Tuesday afternoon as I walked into school to gather a child from parent pick-up. Sitting in her minivan, her face was directed straight out her front window, but her eyes watched me as I walked, waiting to spy the letter under my jacket or clasped in my hand that held my three year old's tiny fingers.

So much hangs on one little letter.

"It's okay," I say to the woman on Saturday afternoon, the one wearing the pottery apron, as she slowly stands up from her hiding spot on the floor and gets her glimpse up close. "I don't bite."