Dayton

I gazed with intense curiosity as Dayton cheerfully did her job. She stood there smiling and jabbering continuously about nothing. She had a carefree, aged appearance. Weathered face with toothless smile, cracked rugged hands, and a scar next to tired eyes spoke volumes. There she was, checking my groceries, this person whose physical appearance told stories of years external and internal abuse. Too timid to ask, I stood yearning for a hint, a clue into this one’s seemingly dark life.

At first it was just a blur of color. Upon second glance, I noticed bright purple nail polish. It seemed so out of character for a person every bit my mother’s age. As she checked my last few items I looked deeply into the face of this person. Suddenly, the clues I desired were all too apparent, all too sad.

Through wrinkled skin and lived in eyes, I got a glimpse of a younger person. Purple nails, a girlish hair bobble, and youthful colloquialisms began painting a much different picture.

Standing there I witnessed a metamorphosis. Like a butterfly emerging from chrysalis, this woman, who was, at first old and happy, slowly transformed into a young girl forever trapped in an overused shell.

Then I saw her. You know the one. She or sometimes he sits in my class each day. Possibly a little unruly, but all too easily overlooked.

Standing there paying more than her weekly wages for my few trivial luxuries. I felt guilty. Not for having more. For sometimes not noticing, not paying attention.

I wondered, when Dayton was a child, did anyone take the time to care?