A Little Beam of Light

Light

It’s been too long since I’ve written, but sometimes life sweeps me off in its currents and I can’t cling long enough to the shore to transcribe and reflect.This will be a quick post, tapped out on the run.

OranI’m in Orange County, where I visited some dear old friends to the tune of laughter, mostly, followed by a visit to my mother, much less carefree. I won’t even begin to describe the concerns in that department. Instead I want to record a lovely moment with another resident of the assisted living facility.

His name is Augustine, a thin man with kind dark eyes who has the trembling that comes with Parkinson’s disease. (Physically, he somewhat resembles my late Uncle Johnny, who also happened to be afflicted with Parkinson’s.) For some reason I’ve always liked Augustine. Maybe it is because he reminds me of my uncle, or maybe it’s because my mother once told me that he always smiled at her, and I could see this made her feel feminine, pretty enough to generate a smile, something I am sure she hadn’t experienced in a long time.

However, Augustine abruptly disappeared last year and I heard he had been hospitalized. Months went by and I feared that I might never see him again. In fact, I still don't really know what was going on with him, but then one day he was back, and I've been observing his progress ever since with awe and respect. At first he was confined to a wheelchair, and he needed help even to eat, but now I see him walking up and down the corridors, and sometimes along the street. He’s a bit hunched over, and his steps are slow and painstaking, but he is pushing along on his own steam, determined and brave.

I've sent Augustine an occasional card, and once I found a perfectly good radio at the Goodwill shop and brought it to him in case he might like to hear some music now and then. But yesterday, when I saw him passing in the hall, he said that he had a gift for me. I followed him to his room, and for the first time ever, I peered inside. It was tidy and plain, as bare as my mother's is cluttered.

He sat down on the edge of his bed, reached over to his nightstand and retrieved a tiny flashlight on a keychain, just a little pin of light, which he presented to me with quivering hand.

"I want you to have this," he said, "because...you...see me."

Augustine speaks softly, but yes, I'm pretty sure that's the gist of what he said.

His wheelchair sat vacant by the bed, and with great effort he lifted himself and stood upright on his shaky legs, and I was momentarily speechless. A man with close to nothing had just given me a beam of light.

Now that's what I call a gift.