By Olivia Lockey || Contributing Writer
Ode to the strangers who smiled
I want to love the strangers who smiled
and waved;
the steady speed walker,
with hairs graying at the roots of her secure ponytail
unbothered by the joggers zooming past,
who lifted her hand ever so
briskly
tapping the air with each finger
as if to play
an invisible piano
of greeting.
I want to love the strangers who never missed
a “Good morning;”
the old man walking
his small, scruffy mutt,
who hoped that “good morning” would lead to
“how are you”
and then he could talk for minutes
about how his oldest granddaughter
is visiting
and how she is going to be a doctor
one day.
I want to love the strangers who remembered
how lovely,
how important it was;
the two gossiping women
who knew Barbara’s third marriage
was never enough
to distract from
a quick
closed-lip smile
of recognition.
To the strangers who tipped their heads
to one another
I trusted you
the way a toddler trusts his tilted training wheels
unprepared to let go
of balance
I did not imagine a world without smiles
so deprived of mouths
missing those unmasked shades of rouge.
Eyes are not a window to the soul.
I try to love the strangers who walk on the other side
of the street;
the little girl,
new to this world
clutching a hand that feels familiar
who,
I imagine,
(behind a crimped mask)
pulls back the corners of her lips,
cinched like curtains,
teeth a beaming sky,
calling for me
to sing back that beautiful, silent,
hello.
Sophomore Olivia Lockey is a contributing writer, her email is olockey@fandm.edu.