I had my mouth full of biscuits and gravvy when a man in his 60s approached my breakfast table.

“I don’t get it.” he said.

I kept chewing and the cynical part of me wondered if he was, I dunno, about to ask me for money or something. Instantly I knew he didn’t work at the Curran’s Family Restaurant. He was a tall man, beach ball stomach, wearing a bright red collared shirt with a few breakfast stains on it. Wild white hair, big, square, nerd-glasses, and a crooked, skeptical smile. Clearly, he hadn’t shaved in four or five days.

Holy crap - it was Future Me!

(Well, if I have a growth spurt by about 6 more inches that is.)

“I don’t get it.” he said again and pointed to my chest.

I swallowed the biscuits and gravvy. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Your shirt.” he said. “What does it mean?”

Oh. Right.

I was wearing a slogan T-shirt from my friend Brett. I rarely wear slogan T’s but I love this slogan and I love the story of the shirt. Brett ordered this shirt as a gift almost a year and a half ago…and months and months later…it still had not arrived. He eventually gave up on it ever turning up, which disappointed Brett because he thought the shirt was perfect for me. He had ordered it online from an non-for-profit organization that apparently forgot to pay their web domain service; it didn’t seem that the shirt could be re-ordered.

For a year, Brett kept silent, waiting, wondering, waiting, wondering…all this wonderful ‘gift energy’ building up in anticipation. Should he confess about the shirt that I *almost* received or was there reason to keep hope? After about 15 months, Brett broke down and we discussed the almost-cool-gift. A month later, the shirt arrived.

The T-shirt is white and has two orange and one purple square of sponge paint. The words read: Warrior Walkabout: I cannot lose what was never mine

“It means,” I said, taking a breath wondering how to explain this shirt, “You can’t own this life. You don’t own things, you don’t own love, you don’t own history. You walk with them, walk through them, but you never actually own them.”

He shrugged and said something like, “Okay, buddy.”

Walked away shaking his head. Clearly he didn’t buy a word of it.

Who can blame him?

I sounded like a woo-woo crazy. Maybe he was waiting for me to break out crystals and magic gourds.

I left the experience feeling a little unsettled. I believed what I said…but sometimes my beliefs are rattled by strangers or my own inability to express myself. I think I know things that are true…but I can’t translate that into words. I don’t expect everyone to automatically buy into my kaleidoscope vision, but Future Me had agitated me and I spent the rest of my eggs pondering my concept of ‘ownership’ and what I thought I owned in this life.

After breakfast I headed over to a nursery to pick up some morning glories. I had tried growing from seeds, but those stubborn seeds resisted my attempts, refusing sunlight’s and water’s wake-up-call, nestled comfortably in their dirt quilts. I had even tried coaxing them out by sanding down their exterior, as recommended on the packet, but I guess I didn’t own them either:  seeds will be seeds.

While walking up and down the nursery (which I sometimes like to pretend is my own giant garden), I passed a man singing to the flowers.

He was probably the same age as Future Me in the restaurant. He had shocking white hair, almost neon, and as I think about this now, he also had on a red shirt. Huh. He was singing loudly - cheerfully - as he walked down a row of plants in hanging baskets, touching leaves lightly and strolling around. I imagined his wife was doing the plant-shopping and he was just hanging out with plant buddies.

His singing cheered me.

I glanced at the hanging baskets and they were varied -mutts of the plant world - a combination of odd things living together in pots. I saw a bunch of purple flowers, each bloom containing what appeared to be a midnight-blue ink stain at its center, adding drama.

Now THAT was a man who knew what he did not own. Yet he sang to the flowers as if they were his, as if he were comfortably in his backyard instead of surrounded by hurried Thursday gardeners eager to take advantage of the 20% off trellis’ sale. I started humming.

I found the morning glories, seeds with the balls to get out of bed. I said, “Come home with me.”

Next aisle over from them were cheerful daisies, bobbing a little too high in their starter pots and I got the feeling that if they grew any taller, they wouldn’t be welcome at the nursery - they were like puppies at the pound that ‘grew too old’ to get adopted.

So I left with the morning glories and the daisies, wandering towards the trellis section. 20% off until Saturday, you know.

On the way back, awkwardly carrying my wooden trellis, I passed him again, the plant singer. He was humming at a bunch of green things in pots and I laughed to myself because he seemed to be fertilizing them with his own unique voice. Maybe he wasn’t even shopping. Maybe he wasn’t even there to OWN these plants, but just to visit them. It hadn’t dawned on me that someone might actually visit a store to just *be* there as opposed to go in with the goal of owning something new.

I grinned as I walked passed him and almost stopped to tell him that I loved hearing him sing to the plants. I didn’t want to embarrass him, so I kept going.

Then I thought…wait a minute…embarrass him or me?
What if THIS was Future Me? What if this was a version of me that also could be true?

Shouldn’t I stop and say hello and ask myself how that whole awkward unemployed thing worked out back in 2008? Maybe i could ask myself when the next time I am going to have sex. You know, so I could make sure to shower ahead of time.

I back-tracked and told him, “I heard you singing a while ago to those plants.”

He laughed sheepishly.

“You have a beautiful voice. It made me happy to hear you sing.”

That sheepish quality morphed to a proud smile.

“I love to sing. Always have.” he said with jocularity. “Ever since I was this high.”

(For full effect, please put your hand flat out, palm down, at roughly your mid-thigh.)

“I don’t know why. I just sing because I’m happy!” he grinned.

Sitting here typing, I really hope that this was indeed Future Me because he had a radiant, gorgeous smile.

We chatted for a moment or two about singing and what makes a person happy. Never exchanged names. I didn’t want to hear that his name was Frank or Charlie. Sure, it would be fine if he was named Steve or something, it was more fun to meet a time-traveling version of myself at Bachmans’ 20% trellis sale.

We parted.

“Don’t forget to sing.” he called to me after I was a few feet away from him. “You’ve got to sing!”

“Yes, I may have to.” I yelled back and gave Future Me my best Present Me smile.

I stopped to see the name of the mutt-plants to whom he was singing and the only name visible in the aisle was ‘Shade Tolerant Perennials.’ It made me a little sad, that name, because it sounded generic or ‘lesser than.’ They didn’t even get their own pretty flower name. Maybe it’s because their cousins in Aisle 3 (one aisle over) were named, ‘Sun Loving Perennials.’ I immediately pictured those plants on Spring Break in Florida, shirtless and popular, standing up in red convertibles screaming down the highway, drunk and carefree.

Their shade tolerant cousins had to work three jobs to bloom just as well. They probably worked at JC Penny over Spring Break. It was comforting to me that someone took the time to sing to them.

I walked into the parking lot carrying the daisies and morning glories I did not own but have been entrusted to my care, balancing a large wooden frame over my right shoulder.

I started to sing. Loud enough to for the Thursday Gardener five cars away to notice and smile awkwardly.

Maybe next time, I will be ready to sing a duet with Future Me.

This entry was posted on Thursday, June 5th, 2008 at 12:22 pm and is filed under Gratitude. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.