2 humans and a potato aisle.

“Choosing potatoes is hard.”

“Are you ok?”

“Not really.”

“Can I help you?”

“I don’t know what potatoes to buy?”

“Well I like the purple ones.”

“My wife is sick, and I have to get the shopping…

And choosing potatoes on my own is harder than I thought.”

I met this man in a well-known supermarket. In the potato aisle. He was older and looked confused. I wasn’t sure if he wanted help or needed someone to ask.

I rationalised that I didn’t want to patronise or assume. I justified I didn’t want to offend. I made excuses in that head-down, no eye-contact, don’t look at me, ‘far out, don’t you know just how busy I am’ kinda-way.

I almost walked past. Too busy. Too important. Too wrapped up in my own sh%$.

Then I looked up…

It was all he needed as permission to share his struggle. One simple look led to a five-minute exchange where this strong yet fragile elder shared his story. His wife is sick, and he left her at home. She does the shopping, and he now needs to. He has a list, but he finds it confusing. And overwhelming. And he’s sad. Because she is sick.

His worry for his wife was tender and ever-present and sat on his shoulders like an oversized familiar coat that he knew he may overwear, but he never wanted to risk taking off. A part of his own being and skin now. An extension that without left him comfortable and warm but lost in the cold.

His wedding ring sparkled, catching the fluorescent light as his hands hovered over the purple potatoes I’d suggested. Mine, smaller and less worn next to his picked out my weekly crop.

Fifty-three years married, he told me. And his third shop without her. It should be getting easier he said. But its still as hard.

I was touched by the depth of love and affection he openly displayed. He was touched that a stranger had cared enough to stop.

We stood there, two humans in the potato aisle.

Him teaching me about dedication and devotion, me teaching him about Royal Blue and Kipflers.

Humanness isn’t a title, role or position. It’s choosing to look up when we convince ourselves looking down is easier.

It’s five minutes in a supermarket with a stranger that reminds you what connection and commitment look like after fifty-three years.

He bought the purple ones. Said his wife would get a kick out of trying something new. Said maybe they’d mash up different, but different might be good right now.

I simply smiled. Nothing more needed to be said. We both got the gifts we needed that weren’t even on the list.

He bought the purple ones. For her. After fifty-three years, still trying something new, for her.

We both left with what we came for. And something else we didn’t know we needed.

I walked away thinking about oversized coats and purple potatoes and how the hardest choices we make are often the smallest.

Turns out looking up costs nothing.

And not looking at all costs so much more.

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