Little by little, I’ve forgotten that the long day has become late night, and I still haven’t prayed for a stranger. But then I pass a woman in the crowd and there she is—just like that. This is a face I recognize to some extent. She knows me as a writer. I know she was in the audience at my panel today, but I don’t know her personally. I’m on my way upstairs to view the art exhibit and I think to myself, I’ll talk to her on the way back down. Then,just that quickly, I forget. By the time I come downstairs again, she isn’t there.
My husband and I visit with authors, have dinner, wander through the room making small talk and sharing stories of our recent travels. We finally meander to the wine bar and get in line. The woman in front of me turns around—it’s her. That face, that same woman I was meant to pray for. All at once I realize I have to talk to her and pull her aside to share that she is my stranger for the day.
“How bizarre,” she says, but she is saying this with a light in her eyes. “How really bizarre. Do you know what today is?” She smiles at me, but it’s a smile touched by sadness.
Of course I don’t know the significance of today other than the big book event. I just shake my head no.
“It’s the forty-fourth birthday of my daughter who just passed away. This is the first birthday I’ve had without her.”
How bizarre indeed. We step farther away from the crowded bar and over into a pocket that is a little quieter where we can talk for a while. All the cocktail chatter goes on behind us, all around us. Publishing news, new book titles, announcements of recent events. But right now I’m focused on the woman in front of me, and we talk as one woman, one mother, to another.
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