She flitted about in silence. Fleet of foot, she touched down only to rise again, barely there, yet everywhere. When your plate was empty, she whisked it away. When your cup ran dry, she filled it in seconds. When a need bubbled up, she appeared, summoned by some signal you didn't know you'd emitted.
Visible, invisible. Present, unseen. A dragonfly.
The rest of us? We were a hive. All buzzy, a thrum. We gathered, we ate, we drank, and we talked, our stage fully set, our marks all laid down.
At one point she stopped.
Leaned onto a wall.
Only a second -- a pause, for a breath.
"You're working so hard," I said simply, the truth.
"Thank you for seeing me," she said.
Thank you for seeing me.
And off she went.
So often we fail to see what's around us. Who's around us. We veer toward the brightness, the loudness, the bold. We notice the boom, the brash, and the glow.
The quiet, consistent, the always reliable? They ask so little and stay so concealed.
My son left his trumpet at school on Friday. Forgot it in the band room.
He needed it on Sunday, for a concert offsite. He needed it, and the school was locked. He needed it, and we couldn't get it.
My husband called the school's security number. Woke the officer early on a Sunday, at his home.
This man is at school every day by 7 in the morning -- directing traffic, making endless cars flow, keeping kids safe and parents on-time.
We see him but don't see him.
He apologized to my husband. "I'm sorry, but it's Sunday. I'm home. I'm not dressed. There's no one on campus to let your son in."
And that was that.
"Well," my husband told our son. "We can't get the trumpet."
"You'll need to figure something out," I added, tsking (as I do).
The phone rang.
The security officer.
"Give me 15 minutes," he said. "I'll get dressed and meet you at school. I was in the jazz band, too, and I'd hate for a kid to miss his concert."
See the unseen.
See the unseen.