gas station uncle never remembers my name nor my face. he always greets me with a smile and immediately launches into friendly hindi banter. I smile and politely answer "I'm well" in English to his "kaise aap," but before long I have to apologize to him and admit that I am from Kerala, hindi no bolo. We then chat about our families, he tells me about his four kids, one a master's nursing student, the second a medical student in the caribbean, the third at stonybrook and the fourth in high school.
he asks me if I am married, I say no, not yet, just engaged. he has, in fact, met my future husband, and in a previous conversation politely smiled and said congratulations...but his disappointment was hardly inapparent. I read his mind, just as I had read the minds of all my aunties and uncles before they had met Dave and before they knew his kind spirit and weightless soul.
fortunately for me, gas station uncle never remembers me. he does not know that my family lives less than a mile from his gas station. our conversations are transient, passing. existing in a liminal space, neither here nor there.
until now.
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