I have come to a point where I am no longer just an observer of life. It would seem I am intimately connected to things that under normal circumstances I have no right to be.
I cannot walk by a tear falling any longer and be casual in a desire for absence. I stop and if it is from a distance—I feel. More times than not feeling is not enough, and I become involved in this transcendental exercise in discovering my humanity.
We sat just a few feet away, but it could have been miles if not for the obvious.
I sat at a table by myself; he sat at one filled with people but we were both alone. At first, I was oblivious to his peril, stuck in my own thoughts. My mind was rampant thinking of the what-ifs and what-is in my own life. It is at these times I can find a million reasons to be sorry for myself—but not this day.
I looked across, and a man I would learn later was named Ed sat at the end of a table that was obviously filled by his family, young and not so young, but none nearly as old as Ed. And suddenly my mad mind left it’s own distraction as I thought I may be observing my own future. Ed is in the late evening of his life. His skin sags across his body like a badly laid blanket and his eyes are deep set and red.
A meal lay placed in front of him, and he seemed to push the food back and forth slowly.
I thought perhaps it was because he wasn’t enjoying it, but I learned later it was to delay the inevitable. I have been his family, and as I sat there, I cringed realizing I was observing my own moments from a past time.
The family didn’t seem to speak to Ed. They spoke at him, not in disdain, but in that sort of discomfort, we can have when we need to stretch ourselves beyond our own world with our needs. I am sure there was love there, but as I sat and looked on secretively, I wondered if they loved this old man, or loved the memories of him when he was younger—and more relevant.
The family rushed through the meal and quickly made plans to depart. One man paid the bill and then instructed Ed to wait while they went to get their car. As they scrambled off Ed looked sideways, and our eyes met.
“You didn’t eat much,” I said as he noticed me noticing. “Wasn’t it good?” I asked.
His blank stare transformed into a softer gaze as he explained he ate slowly, so he had more time—to spend with them.
Sometimes, few words tell the most detailed stories, and he explained he was about to be taken back to the home.
“Home” not as if it is that place we find refuge, but in this case the place we are placed by concerned relatives, when it appears we cannot care for ourselves.
We idly chatted for the few minutes before a car pulled up, a door opened, and a woman rushed to get Ed, who made his slow movements toward a family waiting to move quickly to send him on his way.
As I said, I was that family once. Not with my own parents—I lost them too soon—but with others older than me. If patience was a virtue then I had none.
On this day, my mind did not go back to those places where my own challenges seem so important, and I thought of Ed and millions of other elderly people who we, hell who I have ignored.
And I missed my mother and father who both left me before they’d had a chance to become the burden I wish they could have become in the best of ways. I wish I now had a chance to be filled with the responsibility of adults have who still have their elderly parents.
I wish I had one more time to say thank you, one more time to share old stories and make them fresh again with laughter. And one more time to hold hands—only this time to reverse the favor and make them feel protected.
It’s over too soon, all too soon…
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Photo by Julie Johnson on Unsplash
