One Little Old Man Gifted Me A Miracle And Didn’t Even Know It

We’re sitting at Tim Horton’s Café, me and Heather, talking about a book she liked and I hated when she stops in the middle of a sentence. She’s staring over my shoulder. Oh, she says. Oh! Oh, Linda, she says and her hands fly to her mouth, her eyes all wide. She’s facing the door so I swivel to look. I freeze, mouth open. Slowly I turn back to her. I feel like I’m in slow motion. I am stricken. Just utterly stricken and my eyes fill up. We don’t say a word, just turn our heads and watch as a little old man orders coffee with two cream, two sugar. He makes a joke, laughing with the cashier. I want to yell hey Dad, fancy meeting you here. I want to run hug him. But I don’t. It’s not my dad. I know because I wept at his funeral. Threw dirt on his grave and collapsed into my brother’s arms out at the old cemetery where his father, mother and brothers waited for him for so long. This man? He didn’t just look a little bit like my dad. He was the spitting image of my dad. Could have been his twin. A doppelgänger. If my dad had not crossed the bridge to forever, I’d have called out, truly thinking it was him. That’s how much he looked like my Dad. And get this. If his face and build weren’t enough, he was dressed straight out of Dad’s closet. Same black fleece jacket. Same black dress pants and polished shoes. White shirt, top button open. With a ball cap, yet. <a href="https://medium.com/on-reflection/one-little-old-man-gifted-me-a-miracle-and-didnt-even-know-it-186c9f78a97b">Visit Now</a>