One day as I bagged my groceries at No Frills, I watched the little old fellow second in line behind me as he puttered past the young woman ahead of him. He was very small and wrinkled and had an elfish, toothless grin.
The young woman had only a few things, and while she paid, he waited at the end of the conveyor belt for his items to come through. His cart was in her way, so she said, "I need to get by here" -- no "excuse me" or anything. He just moved aside and kept talking to himself.
As his items moved down to the end of the belt, one box tipped over onto the floor. It was a package of Vachon caramel cakes. I picked it up. "I think these are yours" -- but he didn't seem to hear.
The young woman snickered. "I don't think he has a clue what's going on, actually."
"Oh, that's OK," I said -- but as I watched her walk to her car, I wished I'd said, "That could be you some day. Some young person will be telling you to move and saying you don't have a clue."
I left the store at that point, so I don't know which way the old fellow went. But I imagined him tottering home, looking forward to having a caramel cake as a nice treat with his supper, and laughing away at some private joke.