That’s what he said. I made an assumption he was a man based on the timbre of his voice because I was rather blinded by the blowing sleet and snow. I couldn’t see.
I was trying to cross the street, making my way to the train, but the puddle that had formed in the intersection earlier in the day was so large I couldn’t tell where the sidewalk ended and so I was having to walk in the street but I couldn’t see and was just hoping the drivers could see me.
“Here, take my hand!”
And so I reached out and a mittened hand grabbed mine, holding me steady as I danced across the slushy lake to his side. With no windshield wipers for my glasses all I could tell was that he was a tall man dressed a bit more properly for the weather than me. “Thank you,” I said and then I shouted, “Stop!”
He had started across the crosswalk toward the other side but in helping me he hadn’t noticed that the street lights had changed. Not many cars on the road that night but there was one that streaked past.
We crossed the road together, walking into the wind. Though we could not really see each other we still managed to chat about the weather. By the time we made it to the station we had concluded jovially that after surviving that winter of three three-foot snowstorms in a row, how bad was this really?
Entering the station, my glasses instantly fogged. I stared at what I thought was his general direction and said, “Thanks again.” He replied, “And same to you.”
And I thought as I waited on the platform that once again a stranger had taken my hand.