Yesterday morning, as Audrey and I were walking out of the hospital after her shot, we saw an elderly man walking in. He was slowly making his way with a cane, wearing navy blue shorts, a white polo shirt, and his Korean War Veteran hat. The man was probably in his 80s or even his early 90s, and one of his legs looked like it had taken several skin grafts over the years. Though he shuffled slowly and slightly stooped, his clothes were pressed and he moved with pride among the younger uniformed soldiers.
We had just finished a hectic morning of shots and 18-month check-up questions: Is she talking? Does she know 10 words? Can she throw or kick a ball? After we give her the shots, would she prefer a Dora or Disney Princess sticker? Audrey should have been very tired or angry or something, but she was happy because she got grape Tylenol and Audrey exists on a plane where shots and questions don't bother you as much as the injustice of someone stealing your hot pink monkey blanket.
Into the sunlight she charged, fresh from the adventure of the revolving door, with a confident stride and a smile on her face. As we came up to the veteran and I noticed his cane and his slow gait, I tried to redirect her around him. My hands were full of prescription bottles and paperwork, so I was rearranging things to pull her out of his way.
Her smile only got bigger.
"Well isn't she pretty?" he said, as she hurried directly into his path. I reached for her hand, hoping to move her out of his way so he wouldn't lose his balance or something, but I didn't make it.
Audrey reached for the man and hugged him around the legs, smiling. For a moment, the only thing that mattered in the world was this happy little girl in her gingham dress, hugging the man who was once willing to give all for his country, bathed in sunlight in front of a hospital on an otherwise unremarkable Tuesday morning. I stopped for a moment, ready to corral my daughter or support the man who needed a cane to walk to his doctor's appointment.
The man just laughed. Audrey smiled, looking up at his happy face.
You never know when your day is going to be made, or when a toddler knows better than you how to make someone else's. I wish I had a bottle that could hold that man's laughter or my daughter's smile, and the way the sunlight framed their moment together.
In that unremarkable parking lot, on a rather unremarkable Tuesday morning.
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