She has interested me slightly in the two years she has weighed us in and out at the elevator we hauled Brent’s harvest to.  I knew she was back again this year when I saw her black Dodge short bed truck with the same small dent in the otherwise flawless finish. 

I think she recognized me this year, but it is hard to tell.  She is so quiet and doesn’t smile much, if at all.

I tried to chat with her a bit, this time involving her children who were spending some of the days with her at work, since school was called off.  But I hardly got anywhere.  Not that I felt like I had to.  I was trying to be friendly and courteous.

Until today. 

She had her daughter there whom I hadn’t seen yet.  I asked her if these were all her children.  She said no, she had one more, but he was too young to be there. 

She paused a bit, thinking something over, and then said, “Actually, I have four children.  My oldest was killed by a drunk driver when he was 2 years, 3 months old.”

“Oh, No!”

“Yes,” she said, “he would be eleven years old now.”

“Were you with him in the wreck?”   

“No, he was playing on the side of the street in front of our house, and a guy left the bar and drove down our street and hit him.”

“You have been on a journey,” I replied.

“Yes,” she said quietly. 

I stepped back into my truck, distraught.

All the way to the field and back her news weighed heavily upon me. 

I stepped off the truck again to get my ticket from her.

I removed my sunglasses and looked kindly at her.  When she met my gaze, I said, “It takes a brave person to tell me what you said on the last load.”

“Yes,” she said.  And her eyes shone ever so slightly. 

And she gave me a Mona Lisa smile.

I stepped back into the truck humbled.  Her loss is beyond my comprehension.  Her poise and quietness of the last two years now understood.

****