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| photo via googleimages by lagringasblog.com |
The first few times I saw him, his eyes were red and watery,
overflowing with introspection and hurt. He oozed fumes of alcohol and stumbled
when he walked. My daughter watched him, too. Both of us touched. By his eyes? By his heart? By his energy? We didn't know. We just knew he was a gift on our path.
One day, she decided to share something
with him. She chose her new book.
“My daughter has a book to share with you. Would that be ok?”
He lifted his heavy head, his mouth making a half smile, not
sure he heard me right. “She wants to share . . . her book? With . . . me?” He
was dumbfounded.
I nodded my head, “With you.”
He transformed, a marionette lifted from its deadened
slumber.
When she was finished sharing, an unexpected question
sneaked from my mouth, “Did you sing yet today?”
“Did I sing?”
“Uh huh. Sing. Today,” I said, smiling gently.
“Not yet,” he answered, his face unsure if it wanted to
laugh or cry.
* * *
Every time I saw him after that, I asked him, “Did you sing
yet today?” And almost always he would lift his eyes up to me with wonder, my smile reflected in his, and his in mine.
Then one day, he caught me.
I was getting my mail.
“Did you sing today?” he asked me with a bright
clearness that I had yet to know.
“Sorry?” I said, my head not computing.
“Have you sung a song yet today?” he said again, smiling
from ear to ear.
And together we laughed . . .
And laughed.
And laughed.
Our hearts a mess of happy.
