Before long, it seems that if you spend enough evenings behind the puddle, you eventually get to meet a human.
This evening, while Brian and I were enjoying the quiet from the patio, we noticed a young boy standing behind the brush at the edge of the empty lot, trying his luck with a fishing pole. It isn’t the first time we’ve seen people there. Families have spread out picnic blankets, children have explored the shoreline, and we’ve never really minded. In a way, that little piece of ground belongs to anyone who needs a quiet place for a while.
We watched him cast again and again, probably fifteen times, with no luck. Eventually he started walking away, glancing back every few steps, as though he wasn’t quite ready to give up.
I motioned for him to come over.
He walked toward us a little cautiously, and I told him he probably wouldn’t have much success fishing from the spot he had chosen. This end of the puddle isn’t the best place, especially with Shelly making her rounds and the herons being remarkably good fishermen themselves.
“But,” I told him, “you’re more than welcome to come farther down and give it a try.”
He smiled a little and said, “I was going to ask.”
That simple sentence made me smile.
It reminded me that sometimes people aren’t looking for permission to take something, they’re hoping to be welcomed into a place they already appreciate.
For a little while, the puddle wasn’t just home to geese, herons, turtles, squirrels, and ducks. It became a place where a young fisherman found a little encouragement, and two people sitting in lawn chairs were reminded that kindness doesn’t have to be complicated.
I told him he was welcome to come back anytime he wanted to fish, just to be careful along the bank.
As he walked away with his fishing pole, I realized that not every story behind the puddle has feathers or fur.
Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you get to meet a human.
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