Observing the Elderly

The index finger on my right hand is beginning to irk me. The cut hole for a hanger hook is twisting itself back and forth across my finger. The heat-packaged plastic is wearing down my home-made skin. What's worse is that this merchandise cost me half of my remaining money. $30. What's done is done, and this had to be done. Computers don't run if they're boiling hot. System fans cost money. 120mm Silent CoolerMaster system fans cost $24.95 plus tax.

I'm almost home though... I just made it to the correct side of George Ferguson. A honk draws my eyes from the passing sidewalk. I'm not sure who honked, or why, but my eyes see an old woman staring at the ground across the street from me. A parallel cement universe four lanes away. She makes the motion to bend over for something.

Did she drop something? Can she not reach it? Does she need my help?

I watch as I continue to walk.

She tries to bend forward again, but again her hands are far too distant from her desired object. If she tries again and can't make it, I'll cross to help her.

I glance to see where I am going. An elderly gentleman approaches, propelled more by his arms than his legs. Metal braces attached to hands and wrists carry the majority of his weight as he struggles towards me. He's thin and bent, whether from age or sickness, disease or exhausation.

The old lady straightens as far as she is able. A car passes, momentarily obscuring my view. Her feet shuffle, and a dark "rock" is pushed towards the street. She shuffles more, a small smile almost visible on her face. One more push and the object falls to street side gutter. Her weight waddles back to the middle of the sidewalk and she sets off, away from me.

Why did she do this? What was her goal? Did the person who honked have something to do with the object? Did she want to take it home? Why couldn't it stay on the sidewalk?

My questions are lost as I realize I have to go to the far side of the walk. There's not enough room for two people and six legs. The old man is having a problem making it up the incline from a driveway entry.

Does he need help? What could I do? Should I step into the street to make it easier for him to pass?

I'm there. He looks up and grins with such delight that his wrinkled face creates mountains and valleys of skin. Strong eyes sparkle with age.

"HOW ARE YA?"

His deep, rough, aged voice shocks me. This tiny thin man's voice rumbles my chest cavity with passion and fervor. I can't help but be enthusiastic in my reply. I can't help but slow down, hopeful for the chance to listen to the wisdom that surely must be evident within that voice.

"Heh, great!" I manage. "How are you"?

"YEP. SAME!"

And off he goes, physically slow yet so much faster than my long legs can take me.

Within seconds I'm twice surprised by the ingenuity and depth of these people that I thought might need my help. I was wrong. They don't need my help. I need theirs. I need their age, their wisdom, their thoughts and experiences. I need to hear their story, and learn as much as I can. I need them to teach me everything that they know, so that I might continue everything they've tried to accomplish. I don't want my youth to be wasted on me.