I Encounter Sanity

When a tall, slight man with an air of purpose approached me near my front door on Tuesday, I stopped, adopted a guarded attitude. If I'd had time to pull my hat further down over my ears, I would have done.

He had the look of need about him, and I expected he would ask me for something I might not be prepared to give. It was late: I was tired to the point of resignation. It's getting to that stage of the autumn term which is more accurately known as winter. Compassion fatigue feels dormant in me, like a cold virus that won't show itself entirely.

Our brief exchange had a clarity which has stayed with me for the past three days:

Him [leaning in towards me] "What does Tuesday mean?"

Me [my anxiety increasing a little] "Today is Tuesday."

Him [leaning back] "You are right.  I am happy with that answer."

And off he went, and into my home I went, feeling that for the first time in my life, I had scored 100% in a test for which I was completely unprepared.