We are a divided country, they say. You wouldn’t know that if you pass through the doors of my Wawa on Eighth Avenue during the morning rush. It’s always a bit of a jam, but those narrow passageways are zones of perfect harmony filled with constant comments of gratuitous grace. If you listen you can hear shared humanity. I call it Wawa music. You first . . . After you . . . Ooops, pardon me . . . Let me get that for you . . . I’ll hold it! . . . Need help with that? . . . No rush . . . No trouble . . . No problem. What! No problem? Think of that! No problem! No problem for a me to do something for a you, for you to do something for me. All it takes is someone holding a door for you – whether with arms beefy, skinny, smooth, wrinkled, shaved, hairy, flabby, sweaty, scarred, perfumed, black, brown, white, or tattooed – to restore faith in common bonds. And it happens to me every morning right there on Eighth Avenue.

Edward J. Gallagher

Professor of English, Emeritus

Lehigh University