This Man May Be Lost, But All Hope Is Not

I’m thirty-nine, and I do the grocery shopping for my parents, who I live with — mainly because I have the time, but also because I enjoy it. It gets me away from the house, and I’m a bit of an organizational nerd. I enjoy playing grocery “Tetris” in the cart. I like finding deals. I enjoy clipping coupons. I even have a list of each aisle and what’s on it for maximum grocery list planning! So, my grocers know me. They recognize me. If they don’t see me for a while, they charge up like my favorite auntie, hands on hips, asking, “Where have you been? Why haven’t you been in to see me?” I love my store.

This happened a few years ago, around the first year of the global health crisis. I stopped in to pick up a few things. I had written things down a bit out of order because I’d scribbled it while I was at work. I had my store “map”, though, and was consulting it when I nearly bumped into an older gentleman. When I say, “older”, I don’t mean fifties; this man was closer to eighty. He apologized and seemed flustered, so I asked him if he was all right.

Gentleman: *Despairingly* “I’m lost. I can’t find [simple item].”

I glanced at my “map” to confirm before telling him which aisle. He thanked me, and then, completely bereft and almost seeming to give up, he said:

Gentleman: “My wife used to do the shopping for us. Fifty years. She’s been gone a month, and I don’t know how to do this.”

My heart instantly broke.

Me: “What else are you looking for?”

He showed me his list. I accompanied him while we found all the items he’d come looking for and a few others. It wasn’t much — the bare essentials for a single man for the week — and we were done in about fifteen minutes.

As we shopped, we talked. His wife had caught [contagious illness] and fought for almost four weeks before passing away. I ended up giving him my “map”, hoping it would help him as he acclimated to this new task. As he headed for the checkout and I prepared to go back to my shopping (I still only had two or three of my own items in my basket), I heard him say to one of the floor managers:

Gentleman: “That young lady right there deserves a raise.”

The floor manager smiled at me.

Manager: “Oh, I’d love to, but she doesn’t work here.”

The old man looked at me, tears in his eyes, and thanked me. I told him I was happy to do it.

I still am. It’s been three years, and I still think about him from time to time, wondering and worrying about whether he’s okay.