I saw her in the Dillons parking lot.

She was parked as close to the entrance as possible, the way it looked.

Her head was wrapped in a turban and her movements were slow, tired looking.

Before I knew what I was doing I found myself standing by her cart, handing her the groceries out of it.

“Cancer survivor?” I asked.

“Yes.  I’m still in treatment and so is my husband.  We both have it.”

“Wow,” I said, “You are brave.”

“Yes,” she said, “I guess so.  Takes a lot to make it through each day.”

We were silent then as I took my time matching her pace as I handed her the rest of her groceries.

And then, I was mortified as I realized I was handing her purse to her. 

“Oh my,” I thought, “What will she ever think of me for handing her purse over,” as I realized how brash it seemed.

But she didn’t seem to notice.  

And it seemed she really meant it when she said thank you to me as I rolled her cart away to the cart corral.

But I felt helpless in spite of it all.

I couldn’t walk in her shoes; I didn’t even know her enough to call her in a week or so to see how she was doing.

I guess, in a way, cancer is a one-person journey as far as the diagnosis of it.

But surely, no one need suffer it alone.

For sure in this holiday season, when the big stores try to sell cheer as a commodity. 

“God, be with her,” I prayed.

And then I she left, and so did I.