Limping Along

He was walking the other way on a path I usually walk hours earlier each day. His pace was just about hobble, mine was slightly slower than fast. We exchanged greetings and I was drawn to stop. Was drawn to more than pleasantries. So he shared. I listened. I learned.

His slight limp was a major improvement in a leg that stormed the beaches of Normandy. A leg that moved through the war in Europe and then felt the island sands as the man tasted war in the Pacific. That was where the shell exploded next to him. He was the lucky one. Two buddies near him were shattered totally. Shattered to death. He was shattered to limp. He spoke of it as matter of fact for it was indeed a matter of fact. Just life and part of his life forever. So he had leg issues for the rest of his days.

Days that had him work on mines, engineer missile silos, live in many places, marry once, divorce once, and then marry again. He married his friend’s wife. A friend that was in the hospital the same time he was and had the same operation he had. One entered the hospital married and left dead. The other entered the hospital alone and left partnered. He married her three years later after many dances and buried her three years ago after twenty years together. She waits for him in the plot he picked out. She had him sell the one she picked out and opted to rest alongside the guy she married last rather than the guy she married first or the one she married in between. He lives alone now. He was not lonely but his leg hurt. It hurt so much he needed crutches and a cane. Seemed hard for him to remember when he didn’t.

Until last night that is. Last night, a physical therapist/surgeon or something or other, the title was not important, healed him. Right in his own home. Took a few hours, some massage, warm towels, and ointment. The healer touched, acted on the touch, and then touched again. A walk around the block first without a cane. Then more touch. Then a walk around the park later. Viola! He was healed. The healer followed up with a phone call and said, “…walk on that leg. It is better now.” So he walked.

That is where I met him. That is where he shared his story. He walked slow. He walked with me. He talked with me. I felt good. At first, it was about the timing and the service and the joy of being there exactly when he needed to share. Then I opened up and realized he was there exactly when I needed to feel. To know his story. To feel his story. To share his story. Here and now.

I was glad he made time for me today. Took time today to share his story. We parted sweetly with sincere handshakes. I turned around a bit later and we both waved eagerly. We were connected. I do not know his name. He does not know mine. I know his story. He knew I heard it. That was the connection and is the connection and remains the connection. That’s my story today and I am sticking to it.