He pushes, with considerable effort, through the second door in to the café, seeking warmth from the crisp winter Sunday afternoon too cold for his age.
Mostly white, with the occasional black strand clinging to its youth, hair is tucked under a forest green beret.
He wears a silver watch, shiny, well-maintained, it peeks out under his red flannel long shirt which is under his black fleece collared jacket
He walks slowly, deliberately. A little stubborn about how his body is not as nimble as it once was. Stiff.
He carries a standard cane. Gray and metallic, with notches to adjust the height, and a rubber handle to make for more ergonomic grip.
He walks to the table beside me. Sets down his medium cup of tomato cheddar soup and bun. A top a stack of paper napkins. He movers forward to lean his cane opposite him, as if a companion joining him for his meal.
The smooth metal cane slides right off the edge of the table.
The lady sitting beside him looks up from her book to reach out and help him position the cane so it won’t slip again.
“That’s very kind of you, young lady.”
His face is wrinkled, dark spots, freckles, splash across his cheeks. He has a hunch when he uses his aged fingers to pry open the cover of his soup.
His white eyebrows raise with each bite he takes, he devours his meal much faster than the two younger ladies at his neighboring tables. Yet he moves slowly, deliberately.
I want to know more, but I don’t think his story is mine to hear. All the best sir, may God bless you.