Delivering Meals

He had reached a time when it seemed the earlier parts of his life had been lived by a another person. And it seemed that the mistakes he had made as a young man were the work of someone he now barely recognized.

He had been self-centered and careless in his youth and couldn’t recall most of his indiscretions.

Because Karma says what goes around comes around. And because of the Reckoning and because Santa Claus tracks who’s naughty and nice, he decided it was high time to perform good works.

As if by Providence, a small ad appeared asking for volunteers to deliver meals.

He responded that same day, figuring that his deliveries would atone for the sins he had committed.

A sack lunch with sandwich and milk would erase promises he’d broken. A Salisbury steak could make up for stiffing an associate. Jello negates gossip. There is salvation in removing mold from a refrigerator, taking out the trash for a stroke victim, and inching his way to the coffee shop with that difficult Mr. Pound who could barely walk.

But the man still was far from sainthood, his deeds had a selfish side. If he helped the needy, he calculated, others would be obligated to help him. In his pyramid scheme, he would get back more in the future than he gave of himself.

But the gratitude of the people he helped was immediate and genuine and disarmed his cynicism. It might have been coincidence, or his imagination, but he sensed that strangers on the street had begun to nod and smile and say hello in ways they never did before.