Purpose

                The meaning of life woke one day and remembered her name.

                She stretched and yawned and realized they had probably been looking for her. Like a heralding angel, she prepared to announce her name.

                She began in the hub of civilization: a place called Value-Mart with red sale tags and whole roast chickens and broccoli for 79 cents. The world congregated here, filtering in and out of the glass doors.

                An elderly woman was examining the shelves, a basket at her side. The meaning of life approached her and extended a hand. “Greetings. My name is—”

                “Do you have this in a smaller size?” the elderly woman asked, poking a 25 lb. bag of rolled oats.

                “I…” The meaning of life looked between her and the oats. “I couldn’t say. That is not my purpose.”

                “Oh, I’m sorry,” the elderly woman said, finally looking at her. “I thought you worked here.”

                “I don’t, but I would like to help you.”

                “That’s alright, dear. Thanks all the same.” She picked up her basket. “I’m not in a hurry.”

                No one else showed any more interest than the old woman had. They hurried by, laughing, arguing, pushing carts, quieting babies, in a hurry, taking their time, moving from an unknown origin to an unknown destination.

                She fled the whirling chaos of the Value-Mart to the world outside.

                Two teenagers were walking down the sidewalk, laughing and bumping shoulders. She planted herself in their path. “You must learn my name if you wish to find satisfaction.” 

                They stopped to stare at her, eyes wide but mouths shut.

                “Do you not crave a purpose?” she asked, throwing her hands up.

                They exchanged an uneasy glance before one nudged the other, and they cut across the grass to the parking lot of the Value-Mart.

                She found shelter on a bench by the street. The world grew dark and rainy. Streetlights and headlights glimmered around her. A bus lumbered to the curb and stopped with a grumble and a hiss. The door rattled open.

                They had forgotten her; they had forgotten to search for her. When they looked in her face, they saw a stranger.

                “Do you need help?”

                A man stood framed against the yellow light of the bus’s interior.

                “I should be helping you,” she said.

                He looked up the street, then down. It was empty. “Come on,” he said, moving aside to make room on the stairs. “Get out of the rain.”

                She sat in the row of seats behind the driver, watching the world flicker by through the rain-streaked window. “Do you feel fulfilled?” she asked.

                He laughed in response. The bus squealed and complained as it slowed for a red light.

                “I no longer have a purpose, it seems,” she said.

                “Do you need one?”

                She considered this. Without a purpose, she was useless, or perhaps things were only useless if they had a purpose they weren’t fulfilling. But she couldn’t be useless if she didn’t have a purpose to not fulfill, could she? Her head was starting to hurt.

                “I paint on the weekends,” the driver said. “Nothing great, but I enjoy it. Maybe you need something like that.” He glanced up into the large mirror mounted on the ceiling. “What’s your name?”

                She was silent for a moment. “What do you think it is?”

                He peered at her reflection. “Well, you look like a Sarah to me.”

                Sarah. She smiled to herself. That was close enough.

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