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The Old Man WC 298 The old man spoke barely above a whisper; I crouched down to hear him. “Tell her I love her,” he said. “Who?” I wished I hadn’t crouched down. Now, somehow, I felt responsible to tell someone this homeless stranger loved her. My knees were screaming at me, but it felt rude to stand up at such a moment. “That God will watch over her.” “Over who?” I stood up. “Come sit on the bench,” I said. “It must be cold down there on the pavement.” I helped him up; he shuffled over to the bus stop. “When did you eat last?” I wanted to add, “Or bathe,” but that felt rude. “I dunno. Been a while.” There was a McDonald’s nearby; I felt compelled to get him a sandwich and a coffee. “Why don’t you tell her yourself?” We sat in silence. I looked at my watch; I was going to be late for my meeting, but I couldn’t leave him. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll get you something to eat. Be right back.” Five minutes later I was back with a Big Mac and a coffee. I put the food down next to him on the bench. “I’m Brent, by the way. And you are?” The old man stared straight ahead, scowling; it was like a dark cloud had settled over him. “Who did you want me to tell?” Silence. I really had to go; I left the sandwich and coffee next to him, emptied my pockets and put my coat over his trembling shoulders. “Sorry, I have to go. I’ll be back.” After my meeting, I hurried back to the bus stop. The old man was gone, he wasn’t anywhere. My coat was on the bench, next to the untouched food. I think about him sometimes. |