The wind blew my hair in my face. I struggled to restrain it as I peered through my monocular down the road. No bus yet. I dropped my arm to my side and noticed a woman at the far end of the block. She appeared to glide. These eyes deceive me. I closed them and calculated my bus should arrive any minute. I balanced my cane on my collar bone and sunk my hands in my pockets.
As the lady moved closer, I realized she pushed a baby stroller. Wind and traffic whipped past me. A large vehicle appeared on the horizon and I checked my monocular. A bus, but not mine.
The wind stopped and I could hear her young voice. “People think I’m nuts, pushing this.” I couldn’t tell if she was talking to me or on a phone. She used an energized stride like a high school sprinter preparing to race. White cords–perhaps a pair of earbuds–contrasted against her black windbreaker. She paused as she reached my square of sidewalk, “I’m going to the market though.”
“People think it’s crazy, pushing an empty stroller,” she said.
I pivoted to face her and tilted my head. “Nah. I think it’s clever. No heavy bags to carry. Besides, ” I smiled and took my left hand out of my coat pocket to better display my white cane nestled between my arm and torso, “you have extra slack with me.” She glanced down at my mobility aid and seemed to grin.
She moved on, bidding me a blessed day. I said goodbye and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on my cheeks. It’s fun when vision loss reassures someone. You never know what you’ll hear at the bus stop.