THE PERSON BEHIND ME

I always try to make sure Rosie does...you know what...in a wooded area and not anywhere near somebody’s house.

Because apparently dog poop has become one of the defining moral crises of suburban America.

Every few lawns there seems to be a sign.

“PLEASE DON’T LET YOUR DOG POOP ON MY LAWN.”

Or the slightly more threatening:

“SMILE. YOU’RE ON CAMERA.”

Which, translated from suburban lawn-sign language, means: We have fourteen cameras, a Ring doorbell, satellite imagery, and a retired guy named Frank watching from behind the blinds. We will find you.

So Rosie and I have an understanding.

Keep moving.

Eyes forward.

Do not make eye contact with the hydrangeas.

Eventually we make it to the woods, where she can conduct her business without creating an international incident.

Right before we get there, though, I notice a car with a huge sticker across the back window.

And I mean huge.

It took up almost a quarter of the window... which probably says more about my eyesight than the size of the sticker.

Technically, it wasn’t even a bumper sticker because it wasn’t on the bumper, but “large emotional message affixed to the rear window” is exhausting.

I moved closer.

I was expecting something snarky.

You know the kind.

“My dog is smarter than your honor student.”

Or:

“If you’re going to ride my ass, at least pull my hair.”

Classy.

But when I got close enough to read it, I stopped.

“To the person who is driving behind me… Please know the world is better with you in it.”

I read it again.

And again.

Probably ten times.

Because I had been expecting sarcasm. A warning. Something angry.

Instead, some stranger had put a message on the back of their car for another stranger who might see it on the exact day they needed it.

We have absolutely no idea what the person behind us is carrying.

None.

And I’m guessing you’re carrying quite a bit.

I know I am.

There are days when it feels like I’m carrying a million pounds from the moment I open my eyes until I close them again.

Working where I do now, I see this more clearly than ever.

People carry entire lives into rooms with them.

Grief. Shame. Fear. Addiction. Money problems. People they love. Mistakes they cannot undo. Things they have never told anyone.

And somehow we still ask each other, “How are you?”

“Good. You?”

“Good.”

Apparently this is how civilization works.

I looked at the sticker again.

Maybe the person behind that car is driving to work after crying in the shower.

Maybe they’re driving home after getting news that changed everything.

Maybe they’re headed to an AA meeting. A courthouse. An oncology appointment.

Maybe they’re circling the block because they’re not quite ready to go home.

Maybe nobody knows how hard they are trying just to make it through Tuesday.

And there, stuck to the back window of a stranger’s car, is this unexpected little mercy.

We probably shouldn’t need bumper stickers to remind us that people matter.

But apparently we do.

Sometimes you just leave something good behind and trust that it finds whoever needs it.

A sentence.

A phone call.

A smile.

A seat saved beside you.

A message on the back window of a car.

Something that says: Stay. You matter.

The world is better with you in it.