The day starts out strangely. Wakened by a kiss just like the old days when he’d leave for work. Still dim light, I’ve only had a couple hours of sleep. The neighbor needs some help, I dress and we go there together since he doesn’t know the alarm system to quickly shut it off before the cops and firemen come.
Her knee went out, she needs some help getting up and if we can get the walker from the attic. Poor woman, she’s been sitting there since four a.m. waiting for a decent hour to call for help. I tell her she should have called immediately; I was just then getting into bed.
Just now in the shop, a call from the First Selectman–that’s the mayor in our small town. He says he’s sent an old strange man a-knocking at my door. I ask him why, but it’s okay; as long as the man is old.
Forty-five years he’s lived in Burlington, fify-five years married. He brings out pictures and the prize certificate for framing from the Fire Department raffle. He explains each photo, taken many years ago, points proudly to his wife, one-half of the couple dressed for roller skater dancing, and with medals on ribbons around their necks. She died in January. He tells me of his life, their son, forty-nine, confined forever to a wheelchair. How he lays his son’s hand upon the mouse so he could sit there fifteen hours a day and see the world outside his chair. His wife "woke up dead" that morning. He needs to talk, I sense that. I see the look of disbelief inside his eyes. It makes it more real each time you tell the tale. He leaves an hour later. I watch him walk away, reaching into his back pocket for his handkerchief just as I reach into the box of tissues on my workbench.
What is Gabriel Garcia Marquez telling me? What is the meaning in today?
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology