Erma Bombeck:
There were thirty whole beautiful minutes before my plane took off ... time for me to be alone with my own thoughts, to open a book and let my mind wander. A voice next to me belonging to an elderly woman said, "I'll bet it's cold in Chicago."
Stone-faced, I answered, "It's likely."
"I haven't been to Chicago in nearly three years," she persisted. "My son lives there."
"That's nice," I said, my eyes intent on the printed page of the book.
"My husband's body is on the plane. We've been married for fifty-three years. I don't drive, you know, and when he died a nun drove me from the hospital. We aren't even Catholic. The funeral director let me come to the airport with him."
I don't think I have ever detested myself more than I did at that moment. Another human being was screaming to be heard and in desperation had turned to a cold stranger who was more interested in a novel than the real-life drama at her elbow.
All she needed was a listener ... no advice, wisdom, experience, money, assistance, expertise or even compassion ... but just a minute or two to listen.
It seemed rather incongruous that in a society of supersophisticated communication, we often suffer from a shortage of listeners.
She talked numbly and steadily until we boarded the plane, and found her seat in another section. As I hung up my coat, I heard her plaintive voice say to her seat companion, "I'll bet it's cold in Chicago."
I prayed, "Please God, let her listen."
Why am I telling you this? To make me feel better. It won't help, though.
