As soon as I turn left
I see that he is stuck
in his big truck and bigger trailer,
trying to coax all that metal
around the parked cars.
I could back up and go another way
but I see the line up of cars behind him
and I look at his face.
I can’t tell if he’s stressed
or if the lines on his forehead
are just because he’s so old
but his turban is the colour of marigolds
and his eyes meet mine
so I quickly park and ask if he needs help,
which he accepts before I remember
that I have been spatially challenged since I was a kid
and also have a mild phobia of big trucks.
But I stand behind his trailer,
which I now see is full of dirt
and I shout to him in his rear view mirror
nope yep nope nope
as he inches forward
and then back
and then forward again
but nobody behind me is honking
and his turban really is the most beautiful colour,
yet it goes on a long time
like a baby being born
after a long labour,
he is free.
He waves to me out his window
and says something in a language
that sounds like raindrops
and I shout back
like the way the words were meant,
me at the door of my heart
flinging it open
and this old Sikh man,
my most special guest.