As I meandered the aisles in Hannaford, I was stuck behind slow movers, forced to wait for picky-choosers and inevitably ran into a couple of people I knew who wanted to make small talk, while all I want to do is get in and get out. 

Then to top it all off, I picked the check-out lane that was shortest, but of course ended up taking the longest because the customer in front of me had a tube of Pillsbury biscuits that burst at the seams somewhere between her picking it up and placing it on the conveyor belt. 

I waited impatiently – asking God why I always pick the lanes that take the longest even if they are the shortest – as the young bag boy searched for a secure tube of biscuits. 

Finally I was able to get my week’s worth of food through the register and out the store, almost being struck by a speeding minivan in the parking lot. I packed the bags away in the front seat, walked around the car and climbed in. 

Just as I was buckling up, an older gentleman crossed in front of my vehicle pointing just below the hood of my car. 

“Excuse me,” I said as I rolled down the window to hear what he was saying. 

“I like your license plate,” he said with a smile. 

This fall when my family played a car shuffle, I retired the VW Beetle (my high school graduation present) and mom handed down to me her Hyundai Tuscan (a more reliable vehicle for Maine winters) to me. As a means of claiming mom’s old car as mine I ordered vanity plates.

On the Maine Bureau of Motor Vehicle’s Web site, there are 22 passenger license plates to choose from, and I picked the “Breast Cancer Support,” which directly benefits the Breast Cancer Services Special Program Fund.

Inscribed in pink are the letters “MSS EM”  – in honor of my grandmother who always called me “Miss Em” and lost her battle against breast cancer when I was 2 years old. 

“Thank you,” I said to the man standing beside my car. “It’s for a good cause.”

“I lost my wife two weeks ago to lung cancer,” he said. 

I was taken aback by this unexpected honesty, feeling sad for this stranger who felt the need to express his gratitude to me.

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” I said.

“Well, that’s why I like your license plate,” he said. 

Not knowing what else would be appropriate or kind enough to say, I thanked him again as he walked away and I drove off fighting back tears, but smiling at the same time. 

Grumpy from the mundane task of grocery shopping, a stranger turned my mood around by opening up to me as we chatted in the parking lot. 

— Emma Bouthillette