Doppelganger

I spend a lot of time at the pharmacy these days. On any given day, I take 6-7 prescriptions - white, yellow, orange, green, and pink pills that bring nourishment, relief, and support to my sweet sweet body. Another day, I will tell you love stories about the pharmacists, how they're kind to me when I cry from overwhelm, how they look up coupons to help me save every penny, how they patiently answer my questions when I'm worried about the impact of one more medication.

This particular day I saw a man in front of me in line who reminded me of my dad. Seeing this man brought a feeling of love, missing, seeing, and longing, all in one swoop, into my body. I don't get to see my dad as often as I'd like, as we live separated by 1500 miles and five states. This poem arose while I waited for my prescription to be filled. I wrote it in the back of the book I'd brought to read while I waited, as I didn't have any paper, then tried to read my handwriting to type it out and send it to you.

Doppelganger

The man in front of me could be
my father. He wears the same black
ball cap, snug around his ears. The same
black belt holding up his faded navy
shorts. The same sturdy tennis shoes
and white gym socks. He tells the clerk
his date of birth, almost the same year.
My father has aged so gradually I have
to remind myself he's eighty. Through this
man I see my father anew. The man signs
for his pills, turns to leave, and our eyes
meet. We smile. Somewhere in a grocery
store in a small Ohio town a middle aged
woman shops for oatmeal and bananas. She
see my father and is reminded of her dad.
Perhaps her dad also wears a black leather
belt, threaded through his shorts, with
white gym shoes and a black baseball
hat. Perhaps she smiles at my dad. Perhaps
she calls her dad later that night and says,
I was at the store today and thought of you.