Doris

110 degrees this afternoon, but feels like twice that. I am unloading my Albertson's shopping cart and the minute the things are transferred to my car, I am overtaken by the nefarious urge to enter said vehicle and turn on the air conditioning and try to revive myself before the 5 block trip home.

Unwillingly, I notice the cart corral off in the distance. Blasted peripheral vision. There are no cars in the vicinity, and fleetingly I let myself off the hook. "Stupid to have to push this cart all the way down there, when it's obstructing nothing. Just farther away for the guys to go to round it up later," I mutter to the oppressive superheated concrete. As I grab the handle and head for the cart camping ground, I notice another couple of carts here and there, and grab their hot little hands as well as we promenade on down to the finish line. I curtsy and take leave of the carts.

"What an utter waste of energy and time," myself tells myself. And I agree. But what else could I do? Ever since that night in Vista, CA a couple of decades ago.

It was midnight. And I was shopping at the grocery store in my usual daze of trying to accomplish it all (I tend to run a few hours, perhaps days, behind everyone else, but it's not a race, right?). As I left the practically empty store with my valuables, there she was, bringing her cart all the way back to the inside of the store.

"Doris," I said, "hi there, what on earth are you doing? It's midnight; dark out, see? For heaven's sake, you shouldn't be out here alone, much less returning a dumb cart!"

"Oh," she blushed, "I just hate to think of those young boys out here having to worry about taking care of this."

I smiled, and shook my head. You see, Doris was about 80, diabetic, fragile in a dozen ways; she could barely walk, even with the help of her cane. She lived in a small trailer park, and had lived a very hard life. Everyone should have been worried about taking care of her. But in a very small and humble way she taught me a very big and important lesson. Caring. What a way to live.

See, Doris. This one's for you. You're long gone. But not forgotten.