I often drive to a Starbucks that’s about twenty five minutes from my home. I need the time to think, listen to music, and talk to the characters in my head before I start writing.

After getting my coffee I stare out the windows and watch people and the weather and wait for wisdom to drop into my head via the ceiling. It often does not drop.

Now and then I see her.

She can’t be more than four feet eight inches tall. Tops.

She has black hair and wears a special, thick black shoe with a lift on her right foot. The other shoe is black, too, with no lift.

She uses two canes to walk, both pink. Pink canes, I like that.

She has a backpack on her back. Since I’ve seen her several times at the same time, I think she’s going to work, or coming home. I don’t know if I’m right.

She struggles to walk. One cane angles out, a wobbly step is taken, then the other cane, and another wobbly step. She does not stop, she does not rest.  Her head is down a bit, I figure she probably needs to watch the sidewalk carefully.

One foot in front of the other.

Her back is bent too, like a stick, her hands clenched tight on top of the canes. Her gait is more of a trudge, like a mountain climber going up a steep hill against a hail of snow, using all muscles to make the simplest step.

I worry about her falling and I so hope she doesn’t.

I watch people who walk around her or walk by her.  Two tall blondes, stylishly dressed, laughing. They pass by, I don’t even know if they see that she’s there.  Perhaps they do, and glance away, forgetting quickly.

Another man goes by with his backpack on, eyes straight ahead. A mother with a stroller keeps strolling.

Her head is down, she wouldn’t notice if anyone looked at her or not but my guess is that she has learned that she doesn’t want to see what’s in their eyes. She doesn’t want to see people staring at her about as much as she doesn’t want to see people pretending that she’s not there.

I don’t know anything about her. Maybe there’s a husband and kids at home. Maybe there’s parents, a cat. Maybe she’s alone.

But what I do know is that living with what she lives with has to be an enormous and difficult challenge every day. Nothing is easy, not walking, not shopping, not errands, not working, not socializing. I can’t imagine that she doesn’t physically hurt at night because her walk is so tight, so hard.

One foot in front of the other.

It strikes me how easy most of us have it. We want to go somewhere? We walk. We want to exercise? We run. We want to hike? We find a forest. That’s not something she can just hop to and go do. There is so much she can’t hop to and go do.

I can’t even imagine how school must have been for her. No running, no sports. You’re different. You stick out. Friends are harder to find because everyone wants to blend in with everyone else and you are not one who blends.  You’re alone a lot. You’re not fitting in. You’re not like the tall blondes who laugh as they walk by her that afternoon.

School can be merciless for many people for a variety of reasons. When you’re wearing shoes with lifts and you can’t jump rope, hit wall balls or even grow to be somewhat normal in height, it’s got to be a nightmare.

As for the rest of life? Tough. Very tough in a myriad of ways.

What I am struck with though, each time I see her, is her strength and courage. It’s a small hill she’s walking up and it’s so hard for her, her steps so small, so unstable.  But she does it, day after day.

I sit and wonder as I down yet another mocha, why her?  Why not me?

I wonder how she sees herself, how she sees others. I wonder what she knows, what she believes. I wonder if she ever thinks, why her? Why not someone else? Or if that question was unanswered long ago and she doesn’t think of it anymore.

I wonder what her name is. I wonder what she likes to do. I wonder who she loves and who loves her.

There she is.

With her backpack. Walking with her angling pink canes, her thick black shoes. She is determined, focused, swaying for balance, she’s going somewhere.

She’s going somewhere, I don’t know where.

One foot in front of the other.

I sure admire her.