Thanksgiving

Once I met an Israeli man, sixtyish
in aisle nine
at Whole Foods
while picking up a can of pumpkin for
Thanksgiving pie, later in the week.

He dropped a glass jar of cherries and it
shattered
liquid, glass and wet soft red globes, everywhere, on the
polished concrete floor.
He just stood, then quietly buried
his face in his hands.
Sir, I said, concerned,
Sir
and tentatively touched my hand to his narrow shoulder, his shirt neat
and tucked, sweet-smelling, a smaller man than you'd think.
He spread his fingers, looked at
me through them, crying.
My wife is dying, he said to me, so
softly and stammering,
plainly, and we
haven't had
sex in six years.

Which was the story, the wound, the hurt, the brokenness? I
did not know. What I am so glad for all
these years later
is that I did not say I'm sorry, or hug him, or say anything
at all. Instead I dropped my can
not needed
to the floor, amidst the mess, and
joined him
held his gaze, and looked.
All was seen.
All was real.
He looked at me so long, bent his lips into the smallest smile, then
took a breath, and another
jar of cherries, and, simply, left. The stockboy
cleaned up, and
I went home. This was
Thanksgiving
that year.