The seventy degree weather was a welcomed escape from Atlanta's frigid air. Everything about the atmosphere was quite different: the olive trees, the street markets, the endless security checkpoints, the concrete walls and the all too revealing butcher shops. Orthodox Jews wearing black top hats bustled through one section of the city with purpose in their step and prayer in their hearts, while a rainbow of different colored hijabs occupied another. This was the Middle East.
Acidic rain drops fell on my face as I drove on the expressway. The grey sky, murky and nebulous, pitied me, but refused to end its tantrum. Once again, the window on the driver side, without permission, and as if it controlled everything about my car, rolled down on its own.
Embarrassed, I pleaded for mercy. Lord Please just let this window come up I begged. Come on! I moaned. I banged the lever again. And again. And again until the brown veins in my hand reverberated with pain and turned pink from bruising. Dang, where’s Providence when I need her? The rain mocked my begging, and spit more drops on my face as it laughed. Seconds later, an ambulance rushed behind me. The siren nearly blew my left ear drum out the window. A third undesired shower.
He could have easily been my grandfather. His cheeks, full of laughter and life, smiled as we walked up to his door and handed him his meal. He had been awaiting our arrival.
"I had just put the cooler out in case I missed you, but yall arrived right on time," he exclaimed excitedly, but slowly. His face beamed with joy. Jimmy Howard was the fifth out of our seven stops. His ranch brick home resided on LeAnn street in Decatur. I smiled as he struggled to make out our names. "Sha--," he started, pushing his glasses closer to his eyes.
"Sharita," I said helping him out. He looked over at my friend, saw her name tag, and recited her name with ease.
"Amy," he said definitely—proud of his accomplishment. If I hadn’t been told so, I would have never guessed that he was a victim of a chronic illness.