The Invisible Man

Today, I talked to an invisible man.

No, not the type found in an H.G. Wells book. But, still, an invisible man.

He wasn’t always invisible. Sometimes I would see him at the grocery store, pushing a cart down the cereal aisle, checking out at the register, or loading shopping bags into the basket of his flashy, lime-green scooter outside. Just another regular. But after a while, as I looked closer, I began to notice that his outline blurred at the edges, his image hazy like a poorly developed Polaroid. I had to blink once or twice, thinking my eyes were failing.

That day, my shopping bag was heavy with limes, tomatoes, peppers, and avocados. It was hot, even by Southern California standards. As I walked to the car with my daughter, Adriana, I spotted his green scooter. At first, I didn’t see him, but then there he was, flickering like a mirage on the asphalt. He wore a sand-colored straw hat, Panama-style, with a spray of orange and yellow marigolds pinned to the side. He was loading his groceries when he looked straight at me. Almost solid now, barely flickering. I was stunned – scared and confused at what I was or wasn’t seeing.

It was my daughter who spoke to him. She told him she liked the flowers in his hat.

He looked over at us and smiled back. “Thank you.”

“Pink flowers are my favorite,” Adriana said.

The man’s eyes crinkled at the sides as he looked down at Adriana. “Oh…I have those too.”

He told us that his wife had loved to garden. He told us of the roses in spring and the peonies in winter. I thought of the nickname my Abuela sometimes called me. Pulgar Negro – black thumb – since I can’t even seem to keep a cactus alive. As he spoke, the flickering lessened. I wondered what Adriana was seeing, whether she noticed it at all?

The man added that even though his wife had passed on, he still wore her flowers every day, just as he did during their marriage. Whatever flower was in season.

“Without them, well, I’m…nothing,” he said, trailing off midsentence.

He said goodbye and got in the seat of his scooter. I turned away, pulling Adriana along with me. But as he started the ignition, I turned back to him.

“The flowers you’re wearing,” I began, unsure why I felt the need to say this. I usually didn't speak to strangers.

All flickering ceased. He was completely clear as he answered. “Yes, marigolds.”

“In Mexican culture we consider them sacred,” I said. “Their fragrance and color are thought to attract spirits. They’re perfect to honor and remember your wife.”

“Oh, I always feel her with me,” he said with a tender smile, “no matter the flower. But thank you. I’ll remember that.”

Feeling around with his wizened hand, he found the place where the flowers were pinned to his hat. After releasing the autumn-hued blossoms, he held them out to me. “For you and your little girl – even though they’re not pink,” he said, as one corner of his mouth creased in a half-smile. “I have many more at home.”

The man rode away, slowly fading into the distance, and Adriana and I walked to our car.

After I strapped Adriana into her car seat and settled in the front, I said, “Instead of the guacamole salad tonight, what do you say we invite Abuela over?”

“Yay, I haven’t seen her in a long time.”

Before pulling out my phone, I caught my reflection in the rear-view mirror and realized I should have added hair dye to my shopping list. I removed one of the golden blossoms from the bouquet and tucked it behind my ear.

“Mama, hello. Can you come over and show me and Adriana how to make your famous tamales?”