There she is again…in purple scrubs today…standing on the sidewalk outside the hospital where I see her every morning juggling her soda, her cigarette and her cell phone.
“…stupid ass teacher, I told her my son does not need medication and if she doesn’t get off my ass, I’ll cuss her out in alphabetical order.”
Her outburst is so loud, I hear this from inside my car with the windows up. I want to park my car, get out and give her a hug. I also want to take the cigarette from her fingertips and smash it with the toe of my orange Juil Mojandas, and pour out her soda.
I want to take her out for breakfast and gently steer her toward healthy menu choices. The mother in me wants to lecture her about the evils of refined sugars and saturated fat in the American diet, which is probably why she is at least 30 pounds overweight, stressed to the point of snapping, and so amazingly angry at 7:00 am.
But all I manage to give her this day is a warm smile when our eyes lock briefly before my light turns green and I steer my car away from her smoke break.