Last Christmas, I was having coffee one morning with a friend at Starbucks. We hadn’t seen one another in a while and our conversation was involved. Suddenly, someone approached our table. I immediately recognized her as a woman who is a member of the same fitness center in the
same strip mall where the Starbucks is located. She’s approached me before and said kind and complimentary things to me about my dance exercise at the fitness center. I freestyle dance there every day.
This time, she stood in front of me and my friend with a sense of purpose. She’s an older woman with streaks of gray in her hair. She wears a mask. I’ve never seen her without one. Sometimes, I’ve seen her wearing a Black Lives Matter T-shirt. This time, she looked more determined than
usual. She had our undivided attention when she looked at me and said: “I miss you. I miss seeing you dance.” At that point, my friend excused himself to visit the restroom, saying something about letting us have some privacy. It was kind of him to notice that the woman and I were acquainted—though I didn’t know her name and she didn’t know mine—and give us privacy.
The woman went on: “I don’t know when you work out, but I never see you anymore and it’s not the same without you.”
I could tell that she was groping to express something meaningful and that hers was a sincere expression, which seemed important to communicate. I looked into her eyes—this person has warm, sensitive brown eyes—and asked, “How are you doing these days?” She replied that she’s been struggling during the holidays. I could see her eyes filling with tears.
What she didn’t know is that I’d been struggling, too. By then, my friend had returned to his seat. Starbucks was crowded with Christmastime coffee drinkers—people shopping, getting food andcoffee—and, at that moment, I decided to stand up, walk up to her and give her a hug.
She hugged me back. I could feel the depth of her emotion. I whispered as I held her: “It’s OK, I understand. I’ve been feeling a little blue this holiday season, too.” We were locked in silent embrace for a while. Neither one of us was letting go. It felt wonderful.
I whispered again: “Why do you feel sad?” She answered: “My husband died in July.” I pulled back, looked her in the eye, and held her hand when I said: “Your first Christmas without him. I’m sorry.“ At that, she relaxed and told me about her husband. Then she said something I’ll never forget: “I remember going to the fitness center for the first time to work out after my husband died. I looked over at the mat, and I saw you dancing. It was beautiful. I had to fight back tears.”
After that we held each other, this time rocking one another, side to side, as we embraced. After a few minutes, we pulled apart and I introduced myself and she told me her name. I said some other things—something affirmative and encouraging, and I put emphasis on seeing her again in the future with better days ahead—and, though I couldn’t see her mouth—I’ve never seen her mouth because she always wears a mask—I had the sense that she smiled. I was smiling. I had just received one of the most profound Christmas presents in my life.
In a world of blankness, cruelty and bloodshed, it’s rare that someone takes time and effort to let you know that you matter. For reasons I don’t want to go into right now, mine was a difficult season, too. I’ve been disappointed by those who ought to know me best. That a stranger who knows me only through my art—the art of dance—could summon the courage, in the face of her agony, to find and compliment me speaks volumes about her character, fortitude and humanity.
This sense of goodwill can ring true in every day and moment. It’s something I’ll always carry asan unrepeatable reward and armor against the pain and grind of a distracted darker world. It’s not easy to move toward a stranger in a public setting, particularly knowing that she might’ve been considered imposing upon a private conversation. By doing so, this extraordinary woman—a widow facing her first Christmas without her husband—put herself first, tapping the best within herself to bestow what she wants me to know: that she values me and my art. She couldn’t have known that this is exactly what I needed to hear.
Scott Holleran’s writing has been published in media from the Advocate to the Wall Street Journal. Mr. Holleran interviewed Henry Reese, the 75 year-old scholar who saved Salman Rushdie from an assassin and wrote the award-winning article “Roberto Clemente in Retrospect: Why Did ‘the Great One’ Go Down?” Scott Holleran’s short stories are featured in various anthologies and literary journals. Listen to him read his fiction at ShortStoriesByScottHolleran.substack.com. Read his non-fiction at ScottHolleran.substack.com. Scott Holleran, who also dances and choreographs, lives in Southern California.
