Recently, an older man walked in.
Gray hair.
Worn clothes.
Unsure whether he was even welcome.
He sat carefully in my chair.
Then held out a dollar.
“It’s all I have.”
I smiled.
“Put it away.”
I wrapped the cape around his shoulders.
“Today it’s free.”
In the mirror, I could see the framed dollar from Ray.
And on my wrist, the bluebird.
My mother once believed bluebirds were for people who eventually made it over the rainbow.
I used to think that meant some perfect ending far away.
I don’t anymore.
Sometimes the rainbow is simply this:
A stranger standing in a doorway.
A chair you choose to offer.
Five minutes of kindness.
Because sometimes the stranger who walks through your door really is just a stranger.
And sometimes—
he’s the father you never knew.
You can’t tell by looking at his shoes.
So sometimes all you can do is say,
“My chair’s free.”
And see who sits down.
