the kindness of stranger

Mall food court. Dinnertime, not loud or crowded. A weekday. The 1909 Carousel bearing silent and stilled witness. I ate a quarter chicken breast, mashed potatoes and gravy, and string beans from Boston Market. Root beer. I picked up the tray on my way to dump the unsustainable plate, utensils, and cup into the trash, saving the tray. "Thank you!" she exalted. I thought I misheard. I turned around. "Pardon me?" She worked for the mall. Would you call her a food court janitor? Her gratitude seemed disproportionate. Misplaced. Too excited for the banal and quotidian occasion. "Thank you," she repeated. "You're welcome. Thank you." But a voice inside, not far from the audible surface, murmured: "What's the thank you for? I'm just cleaning my place and dumping the trash. What's the big deal? Am I that much of an outlier? Is it so rare?" I faced her. Her smile was wide, her delight was deep. From all appearances, she was happy to be there, doing what she was doing. Grateful for whatever life was dishing out. It wasn't me. It was everything and everyone. It was her. "You have a blest day." "Thank you. I will. You too." 

Some people.