Oh, Be Careful What You Think, or, The Pink Teacup

(I have written about this lady before, but I deleted that blog. Yesterday, I saw someone who was dressed a little different than the rest of us. She was at a distance from me, and I am not criticising her, just stating that because she triggered a memory.)

I was in Saint John with daughter #2. It was early, and the city, although awake, was still yawning and stretching. We decided to go to a food court and enjoy some breakfast before we went to our destination, the museum.

On our way, we passed a little old lady. We were in no hurry, but she was in less of a hurry than we were. Was it because her boots were way too big for her feet, and she shuffled along carefully, either trying not to fall or trying not to lose her boots? Her coat was so big it almost swallowed her whole. Her life might have been in the bags she was carrying. When we passed, she politely asked us the time. We told her and moved on to the food court. She caught up with us as we ate.

What was I thinking about her? Nothing terribly bad, as I recall, probably just, "poor old soul." I don't really think I gave her much thought whatsoever. Until she reached her table, that is.

She set her bags on the floor and slowly began removing her layers. Under her large coat were several other garments. She sat down at the table and opened one of her bags.

She removed, from her bag, a cloth napkin. Some silverware. A pink teacup: a very dainty, bone china teacup. A teacup made in England, I am sure, several decades ago. She set her table; silverware in its place and teacup at the top of the knife and spoon. It was all very clean. The whole process took several minutes. #2 and I nursed our tea and coffee. The museum could wait. We were mesmerized.

She shuffled, oh so slowly, up to the counter and purchased her breakfast. She shuffled back to her table and set her breakfast between her fork and knife. She took the top off her paper cup and poured her tea into her bone china teacup made in England. Ever so slowly and daintily she ate her breakfast.

 By this time, I was totally intrigued. I wanted to take her photograph. I wanted to ask her name, where did she come from, what was her story. I didn't, but I wish I had. She changed a small part of me forever; that nasty little part that judges others whether I want it to or not. I saw, at first, a poor, homeless person. I saw, at last, a person, maybe homeless, maybe not, but a lady. A lady with a past, a polite lady who was perhaps lonely, or perhaps happy with her own company. I'll never know. But it changed the way I look at people now, especially when they look a little different from the status quo.