On Sunday, I drive out to the South Portland Target to exchange an item I bought earlier in the week. I make a left hand turn into the vast parking lot and slow down, peering at the rows for a relatively close empty space. I see one and pull in, a little lost in thought and half-listening to the radio. I’m in no hurry and am somewhat looking forward to strolling the brightly lit interior of the store. Do we need a new bath mat? Sure. Toothpaste. We need toothpaste.

As I gather up my gloves and purse, I glance over at the car to my right and freeze. The man sitting in the driver’s seat is looking down at his hands, texting quickly with his thumbs. I can see that there is a small child sitting in the seat next to him, but can’t see the child’s face because of the angle of the sun. The man’s face in profile — his haircut, ears, strong neck and jawline — looks exactly — exactly — like my brother’s. I know this happens — that we see doppelgangers for friends and loved ones, that we ourselves are sometimes mistaken for someone else. We find ourselves doing a double take, or we’re approached by a stranger wearing a funny expression. For several long seconds I silently will the man to look up from his phone. I quickly scan the car — a black sedan with a child safety seat in the back — and stare holes in the side of the man’s face. Still, he does not look up. The resemblance, from this angle, is astonishing. For one wild moment my mind asks, What if? What if it was him? How? I finally climb slowly out of my car, turning my head multiple times to look back at the man as I walk toward the store.

Once inside, I get in line to make my exchange and scan the face of every man approaching the automatic doors while I wait. The store is fairly busy and the doors open often. Young couples drift in. Moms and dads steer the signature red shopping carts, kids perched like happy captive monkeys. I know that if this man comes in, I won’t recognize him. Because it’s not my brother. It’s someone else, someone whose profile in the sun looked for a moment like the person who was uniquely mine in life, my only sibling. I won’t recognize the man. I feel shaken and calm at the same time.

I return my ironing board cover. I make my way to the Home section, picking up a few throw pillows, taking too long to decide between a triangle pattern or wavy lines pattern for a replacement cover. The large store seems to have swallowed all those people coming in. I don’t see anyone else while I’m contemplating my choices in my lonely laundry aisle. What would I say to him if he walked by?

The car is still there when I return outside. This time, a tired-looking woman is loading stuffed white and red Target bags into the trunk. The man is still in the driver’s seat, turning away from the window to arrange something inside the car. If the radio is on, if the man is talking to his child, if the woman is sighing to herself, I can’t hear. As I put the car in reverse and back out, I finally glimpse just enough of the man’s face to see that of course, it’s a stranger. The eyes are set differently. The face is more round. I stare for a second longer, then accelerate to the far corner of the parking lot. For one moment, I feel like smiling. I wish the young family a good afternoon, a good life. I hope the woman sleeps well tonight. I think of all the stars in the sky, the multitudes of them.