My city waved at me

 

One morning last week, as I stood at the edge of the river valley, I watched a group of young people walk down the path, well below me. At 9am it was odd to see a group of  20 people walking that were not small children, yet somehow they seemed young, maybe late teens, hiking down the path, full of energy.

Just as I thought to wave, and resisted the urge, someone in the pack waved up at me. I waved back.

“Someone waved back at me,” she shouted.

Then a series of waves, as I waved and paused, as parts of the pack realized what was happening and they joined in. It went back and forth until they moved out of site.

And I cried.

I sobbed as I tried to figure out why this moved me, what cracked open. And then it hit me – my city waved at me.

_____

This group of young people moved my soul. I found myself wanting to thank them, but they were long gone. And then I heard them. They had circled up onto the road behind. I could see their faces, their smiles, their exuberance, and, of course, we started to wave at each other. And I shouted over to them that they made my day, thank you.

“Thank you river valley friend,” is what they called back, as they continued their hike.

_____

It didn’t matter who I was, it mattered that I waved.

It didn’t matter who started waving, it matters that someone starts.

It doesn’t even matter if we know each other.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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