I came out of the grocery store on a Tuesday afternoon, arms full of bags I was already regretting not splitting into more trips, and found a folded piece of paper tucked under my windshield wiper. My first thought, honestly, was that it was some kind of advertisement, the way flyers sometimes get left on cars in that same spot, and I almost tossed it without reading it.
I didn’t, mostly because it was folded rather than just tucked flat, which felt more deliberate than an advertisement usually is. I set the bags down on the hood of the car and opened it right there in the parking lot.
What It Said
It was handwritten, a few lines, from someone who said they’d noticed my car because of a bumper sticker I have from a small charity walk I did years ago, one I’d honestly forgotten was still stuck to the bumper at all. The note said their mother had passed from the same thing the walk was raising money for, and that seeing the sticker on a random car in a grocery store parking lot had caught them off guard in a good way, and they just wanted to say something about it, no name attached, no way to write back.
I stood there in the parking lot reading it twice, then a third time, cars pulling in and out around me, completely unaware that anything unusual had just happened in that particular spot.
Why It Affected Me the Way It Did
I think what struck me most was how much effort it represented for something with absolutely no expectation of a response. Whoever wrote it had to have a pen and paper on hand, or gone and found some, folded the note carefully, walked over to a stranger’s car, and left it there, all without any way of knowing whether I’d even find it before driving off, let alone read it, let alone think twice about it afterward.
It’s such a strange, specific kind of generosity, reaching out to someone you’ll never meet and never hear back from, purely because a small detail on their car meant something to you in that moment. I don’t think I’ve ever done anything quite like that myself, and reading the note made me a little ashamed of that, honestly, though not in a way that ruined the moment.
What I Did With the Note
I kept it. It’s in the drawer now, with the greeting cards I never sent and the page I tore out of my January list, which has apparently become something of a catch all for paper I can’t bring myself to throw away and don’t quite know what to do with otherwise. I’ve reread it a couple of times since that Tuesday, and it hits a little differently each time, though I couldn’t tell you exactly how.
Trying to Guess Who Wrote It
I’ve thought, more than once, about who might have written it. Someone who parks at that same grocery store regularly, presumably, since they mentioned the bumper sticker specifically, as though it was familiar to them from more than one sighting. I’ve caught myself glancing around the parking lot on later trips, half wondering if I’d somehow recognize them, though I have absolutely no idea what they look like and no real way to identify a stranger from a folded note with no name on it.
What I Told Wanda About It
I told Wanda the story, and she was quieter about it than I expected, given how much she usually has to say about most things. She just said that’s a kind thing to do for a stranger, and left it there, without turning it into a longer story of her own the way she sometimes does with things I bring up. I think it affected her too, in whatever way these things land on a person.
What I’ve Started Doing Since
I haven’t written a note for a stranger’s car myself yet, though I’ve thought about it more than once since that Tuesday, noticing bumper stickers or license plate frames that hint at something specific about a person I’ll never meet. I don’t know if I’ll actually do it. But I like that the idea is sitting there now, planted by someone I’ll never know, in a grocery store parking lot on an otherwise completely ordinary afternoon.
Almost Doing It
I got close once, a few weeks later, standing in that same parking lot next to a car with a faded sticker from a charity walk I recognized, the same one my own old bumper sticker came from. I had a pen in my bag and actually pulled out a receipt to write on, then stood there for a full minute unable to figure out what I actually wanted to say that wouldn’t sound strange to a stranger finding an unsigned note on their windshield.
I put the pen away without writing anything. I think the person who left mine had an advantage I didn’t, a specific, contained thing to say, brief and complete in itself. Whatever I wanted to say sprawled out in my head into something too long and too personal for a scrap of paper left on a car in a parking lot. Maybe next time I’ll manage it. Maybe the specific occasion just hasn’t presented itself yet, the way it apparently did for whoever left mine.