Faces

My father and I were lumbering through the narrow, town streets in the moving truck. The hand truck was all that was left in the truck bed, occasionally booming against the hollow walls. We were on the hunt for a mattress; at 50 my father is too old to spend too many nights sleeping on the floor.

We were nearing the mattress outlet, circling (or squaring to be more accurate) around it as we hunted for suitable parking. My eyes were focused on this search, barely taking in the two old, black women sitting on a porch. One was fair skinned, the other darker than myself. The latter seemed to have no teeth.

"Wave to the women!" my father said frantically as we passed the porch, my eyes already scanning the upcoming street.

"Wait, what??" I replied as I obeyed, smiling at them through my confusion. ("Act first, ask later," is generally a safe rule of thumb when dealing with parental orders, even once you reach adulthood.)

"They were waiting for us to wave," my father informed me. "You didn't notice?"

Of course I didn't. I come from a land where people are part of the scenery, minor breezes passing you on your way to somewhere important.