To the Person who Left an Open Can of Soup in my Bike's Milk Crate

To the Person who Left an Open Can of Soup in my Bike's Milk Crate:

I've been thinking since Monday night about what you did. I came out of the train station to fetch my bike and, in the belly of the milk crate I keep affixed to the tail of the bike so I can transport more bottles of wine home, I saw that you had placed a can of soup, opened, in my crate. I say "placed" because, after many rounds of thinking about the soup can you left, I know you're the thoughtful type. You would never throw, toss or even discard--I know you placed it. The security cams confirm it.

As I mentioned, I've been thinking about you since Monday, and I have come up with many reasons you may have left this can of soup for me. In case you left other cans for others that night, this was the one that had wads of paper towels inside of it, and remnants of Italian Style Wedding. I believe there were other things inside the can, but, forgive me, Angel--can I call you Angel?--I did not look too closely, nor did I keep it and therefore, I'll never be quite sure. Angel, if only you could confirm the following reasons, you would put my restless heart at peace:

Perhaps you knew I went to the gym that day and knew I would arrive hangry at my bike because, shocker, once again I'd left my Luna bar at work. The only thing is, Angel, you did not leave me a spoon. That's on you.

Or maybe, you knew I had to call my Dad and you also knew that my phone battery had died, leaving me with only a piece of string and one soup can that I always carry inside my backpack with which to make the phone call. A one-way call is frightfully frustrating, but, when I saw I had the second soup can in my crate, my despair lifted. Thank you, Angel. The service was a little spotty, given the meatballs that kept rolling around, but I was able to call Dad and it's you I thank.

It could have been that you knew I've been keeping my bacon fat in the fridge in a Ball jar and you disagree with this. You would be like my Dad, then, who insists on keeping his bacon fat in a soup can. I see that this is a subtle plot to win me over to the aluminum can side and I'll take this into consideration.

The last thought I had was that perhaps, bless your heart, you thought my vehicle was part of a new program sponsored by Greenpeace--one where civilians strap milk crates on the back of their bike and allow fellow civilians to throw their trash and recyclables in the zero-sort crate. The biker, me, then pedals to a large facility powered by sunflower oil and sorts the trash in the name of Captain Planet. I am honored and delighted that you saw the goodness in me, and now, I simply feel ashamed that that's not what it was. Here you were, Angel, thinking you were one soup can closer to stitching up the ozone layer and what did I do? I took the soup can and I perched it on the curb. Oh, the shame.

Perhaps it was none of these reasons, but I simply can't wonder about it anymore. The uncertainty is too much for me to carry, as is the weight of your goodness juxtaposed with my small inferior self. Off I go to the market, to pick up some Italian meatball soup, which I've been craving since Monday. I will eat it with Saltines and after I am done, I will rinse it and dispose of it in my recycling bin, which my town collects on Tuesdays. Having lived through this ordeal, I know that it's too much pressure to place the can in a fellow's milk crate, although perhaps some day I will.

Bless your heart, Angel.

Sara