“My son had a bright red Mazda like yours,” she said, stopping and looking at mine. “Yours is the first one like it I’ve seen since. I lost him last year. He was only fifty-one. A fast-growing cancer took him.” She looked over at me. “May I touch your car?”
“Of course,” I replied, smiling.
Sighing, she stroked my car’s bright red window frame. “He was a good man, my son, and I miss him. Thank you for letting me touch your car . . . and remember.”
“You’re welcome to touch my car whenever you see it parked, I replied.” As I walked to my office, she touched the car again and wiped a tear away. Though this happened years ago, I remember it as if it happened only a few moments ago. Sometimes a small gift is really a big one, as it was for her. I never saw her again.