He called me “Kiddo”.
I was in the grocery store, searching vainly in the “International” aisle for miso paste. Overwhelmed by the maze of jars and boxes, I looked around for some help. For some reason, the aisle was crowded with employees madly stocking shelves, ignoring me as I fumbled and fumed in my search for this elusive item. At last a kindly man noticed my frustration and stepped in.
“What are you looking for?”
A joint search ensued. Together, we spotted it. “There you go, Kiddo,” he said.
“Kiddo?” Wow. Does he mean me? He is probably at least 30 years younger than I. But I like it. It sits comfortably on my ear. Somehow I’m transported back to my seventh birthday party. Pink frosted cake with seven candles, presents piled high. Or splashing in Birch Bay’s waves on July Fourth, sprinklers, fireworks, hot dogs. And Christmas morning, the endless stocking with the orange in the toe, the enchanting smell of a brand new doll. I am somebody’s Kiddo.
It feels good to be called “Kiddo” again.