One beat at a time
The elderly man limped through the noisy dining area, his gnarled right hand gripping a twisted walking stick―his lifeline guiding him across the tiled floor. It was a Friday night and the place was packed. His stooped stance and the grimace on his weathered face spoke of a life wearing a blue collar and busting his knuckles to earn a buck. Thick reading glasses rested on time-worn grooves along each side of his nose. He wore a blue and white flannel shirt and, while not new, it appeared to be the best of what I imagined to be a collection of similar garments hanging in a closet at his home. Blue suspenders looped over his slender shoulders and kept his Levis from falling off his narrow hips. A tan Boonie hat―perched at an angle atop his wavy white hair―showed the signs of wear proclaiming this as his favorite headgear.
He looked exhausted, beaten-down, forlorn. With each labored step, it seemed he might be wondering if the trip from his vehicle had been worth it. Hell, maybe he was rethinking his need for sustenance and if it had been strong enough to warrant leaving his warm house? I pictured him there, in his manufactured home, the kind crammed in among a line of similar residences, so close to each other that one could shout “bless you” when one’s neighbor sneezed. He’d have a decades-old La-Z-Boy recliner sporting deep indents matching every contour of his fragile body, and the much-loved piece of furniture would be parked three feet from a dusty old TV, always tuned to project local news and sports at volume 100.
I could see a wooden end table standing watch next to his chair, with a tarnished silver picture frame propped onto it, angled in his direction. The image centered between those borders would be of his deceased wife, smiling back at him from a significant moment in their life. Perhaps he’d also be in the photo, with one arm around her, and he’d be beaming with pride over how lucky he was to have this woman in his life. He would talk with the image often, as if his soul mate was still in the room. Did his kids still visit, or at least call once a week? Did the old guy mope around his dingy place, fixating on a past he’d never get back, and worry the night away until sleep overtook him, or wonder if this was the night he’d be called to join his love in the hereafter?
The man found the table he was seeking, the one with several of his people seated there, an empty chair reserved for him. The old man’s face lit up with a megawatt smile when he reached the group, all of whom stood to greet him, some with hugs, others with hearty handshakes and back slaps. A silver-haired woman, with a seat next to the one reserved for him, stood on her tiptoes, wrapped her arms around him, and planted a passionate kiss on his lips. Cheers and laughter erupted from the onlookers, and years melted from the old man’s features. He stood a couple of degrees straighter before taking his seat and joining in the lively conversation.
As I tore my attention away from this scene, shame overtook me, and I admonished myself for my quick and damning judgment. Who was I to imagine such a sad and lonely existence for this man I’d never met? Instead of pitying the guy, I now felt envious of his spirit. He’d persevered through a long life, no doubt full of challenges, heartbreaks, and all that life tried to trowel upon him, yet here he was, not only carrying on, but looking for opportunities to live life. He wasn’t merely surviving and waiting for life to have its way with him. No, not this man. He sought out life and challenged it to a duel, one he felt confident of winning. That’s who I wanted to be, should I be fortunate enough to live for another twenty or thirty years. I renewed my promise to wake each morning, eager to get out of bed and face that new day with a sense of adventure and wonder. What would I learn? In what way would I make life better for someone else? Regardless of what happened, I’d face the day head-on and give it hell until I closed my eyes that night, thankful to have lived another day and hoping to rise the next morning to start it all over again.
My wife cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. “Why are you smiling?”
I reached across the table, past our celebratory beverages, and grasped her left hand, my fingers touching the gold band I’d placed there many years before. Gazing into those hazel eyes, I said, “Just learned another life lesson, is all.”
She smiled back at me, that special smile that touched her entire face, the one I fell in love with so long ago. I brought her hand to my lips and kissed the golden circle, feeling the solidity of that symbol of trust and permanence radiating there, before releasing my grip and resuming my stare into those loving eyes.
The server arrived with our meals, a smirk on her face, and we resumed our night out.
Somewhere among the throng of humanity, a young twenty-something guy tore his gaze from our table’s scene and smiled to himself before turning his eyes to the young woman seated across from him. He gave a silent vow to still be kissing her hand thirty years from tonight.
And the beat goes on.
Whatever you are, get out there, live life, and be a good one.
-Dave
