He packed up to leave.
An older man that had long-time sadness on his face. From the wrinkle on his face, it wasn’t hard to tell he hasn’t smiled much in his life. No crow’s nest around the eyes. No dimples on his face. A droop in his body and face. It was a sunken soul.
A quiet man, he was. Didn’t speak much and seemed to fear being loud. He offered me his seat when I asked to sit next to him. Needed to charge the laptop. Ran out of juice while at Barnes and Nobles. He happily and considerately gave me his seat so I can be closer to the too scare outlets.
Seen him before. A nondescript man that had lines on his face that angled downward. A Droop about him that slowed. Sitting next to him I felt an unfinished life. An unhappy one. No one to talk to. No one to bring joy. Maybe I am overanalyzing. I hope that I am not projecting, but I sensed a deep, cavernous sorrow in him.
Noticed the picture he drew. It was that of a house. It was a brick house with a green roof drawn a small piece of paper, the kind of paper that one keeps close to his heart. It was rectangular, 3x5 by my guess. His brick house had no dimension. A simple one with no depth, no perspective. The kind that a kindergartner would draw. It had a dog and an American flag. He used a professional drafting triangle. The plastic drafting sort used by architects and contractors. It was a purple plastic with circles, symbols, and figures to trace. He worked on it the whole time I was there. This home meant much, I think. Maybe it was a home he imagined he had? I sensed he did not have much
He wore an old Kangol hat, backwards at that. A sign of style some 30 years past. He wore black Dockers. The well-worn faded kind that one finds at a Goodwill. His shirt covered his large roll surrounding his belly. The oversized shirt couldn’t hide the unexercised life. There was no passion in him. No joy at all. It seemed there was a longing for his 3X5 card home. Maybe an ex-con. Maybe formerly homeless. His white shirt was clean though. It had a giant American flag, that said “Patriotism, the American Way.”
He is an older man whose life seemed to pass him by. He wore a gold ring on his middle finger of left hand. Too large for his frail hands. On the right hand he wore a silver band on finger next to his little finger. He gripped the colored pencil loosely, but colored with an anger of something missed.
He turned around, hoping for someone to speak with. There was no one needing help. The ladies standing next to him were waiting to just to use the busy internet computers. His body language showed disappointment. Reminded me of a tied up old dog waiting all day for the kids to come home school. The kind of dogs that is always chained up, whose master nevers come home to play with him.
He sat next to me and I could not escape this feeling of disappointment. No one to help. No one to talk to. I was going to say something, but I didn’t. It was a library. He needed someone to talk to. He needed to be needed. Like an abandoned pet that hasn’t yet give up on company, but has been too often learned of disappointment. He sits there—not being a part of anything. He is at the outskirts of company. He is socially abandoned.
There is goodness in him. Its there. It is the puppy waiting for his master to play with him. He knows only the disappointed waiting where the master comes home just to water and feed. Never to be play catch or take a walk. Never to experience joy. He had no one to play with. No one to bring joy to.
Can’t help but feel bad for this older man. It was like seeing the too many homeless person on side of the street as you drive by. You would like to give him a hand, but knowing that if you could, it was more than you were willing to give. It is a despair I felt for this older gentlemen. He had intention for something more, to do more, to do good. He was here to help. He wore a blue lanyard around his thick dark neck that held his city volunteer badge. He moved the plastic stand that said “Homework assistance”
Despite all this, one could not escape the sadness around him.
He looked at the clock again and gathered his pictures. He packed up to leave, pulled on his faux leather laptop case. Gathering his colored pencils and sharpener. Opened up his computer bag. There was no laptop inside. Several papers and pens spilled out his overfilled bag. Just colored pencils and kindergarten pictures of his homes.
He glanced me and smiled, a sad smile. I nodded and he waved back. Maybe next time, I will speak to him. Hope his sadness was just today for him. Hope that this sadness is not the kind that follows him home. I hope he has someone to play with. I hope he has someone to talk to. It saddens me and life is too short to feel such a hole inside. I hope to never feel like him.
I promise to talk to him next time I see him.
(Sorry. No Pictures. Out of Respect. We too often have seen this kind of Sadness)
