The sun outlines the harsh wrinkles that cut through his
face. Like the carpenter creating knocked the chisel a bit too hard and sliced
a bit too deep.
Read the wrinkles. Tell me his story. Peruse his face from left to right, each groove a syllable, each mole a punctuation.
His liver-spotted hands slowly pass me dollar bills,
contemplating each as if they were of great value while he unwraps them carefully
from the rubber band where they’re stored in his pocket. Hands are browned,
weathered, strong. Like they’ve held a woman softly, brushed the tears from her
cheek. Like they’ve toiled under the sun and wished for night to break. Like
they’ve bathed a newborn baby, tender as a father’s love. They practically beg me to imagine, to create
his life in my head, to reinvent his memories and play them in my brain.
This is the second day he has come into the store, asked in
a muffled, thick accent, “Chocolate?” and then shuffled to the ice cream
dispenser. He always gets confused between Peanut butter and Chocolate. Muddled
thoughts then he finds his way, dishes out his serving of sweetness. I think,
What if that’s the only sweetness he has left in life?
I watch. His slow, thoughtful, methodical movements.
Everything is contemplated, every move is necessary, nothing is wasted.
So different from those who rush, hurry, bustle through.
Like whirlwinds that sweep in, riling emotions and sucking in stress. He is no
whirlwind.
Shuffles. Slow. At the counter, I notice the leather on his
belt is cracked. But his shoes are polished, his shirt tucked in. He takes
pride in doing things right. No, he is no whirlwind.
And he speaks to me kindly, his thick accent working its way
clunkily through his crooked old man teeth.
Questions circling in my brain like curious vultures picking
at my thoughts. I want to ask him. Where is he from? What did he do with his
life? What has he seen, what has he experienced?
He awakens in me a strong curiosity, and I am overtaken with
a spirit of inquiry that begs to be answered.
But I am too shy. I cannot face this man who is a mystery.
And it is a mystery to me as to why of all my customers, he alone silences me.
He pays, smiles, shuffles away. Sits alone in a corner, eyes turned towards the
window, face lit by sun, lost in his own secret memories.
