This is a man who is a dear acquaintance of my work life. My daily 10-6 life...my "other life".
Last year suddenly his son was shot and killed...you must remember. The 2 young men killed on June 13th. The horror. I cannot and do not want to even imagine. The Prime.
As I ordered the "other" soup offered (community has caught on to the mushroom fabulous-ness!! and it's one hot ticket) get there early.
I've become "The Soup Nazi " about my soup...the thought of 1-ish lunch time is the breath that keeps me going, the pieces of sliced oyster mushrooms, ahh, unbelievable.
Somber again.
As I ordered the " other " soup the initial conversation as I walked in had now changed from small details of the day, the phone call earlier, the game results and the request for Tums pickup for mother...to a foundation in his name, for dyslexia.
I felt a need to continue listening. The hope of personal details gave me a sense of personal closure. Not knowing this person but knowing of him through 3 years of contact with friends, family and clientele...I needed to know who he was. Was he sensitive or a brute. Shy, outgoing, loud, a momma's boy.
Yes, all of the above and more.
The father now noticed me and we exchanged our usual half smile, soft blink of the eyes and head tilted and down with utmost respect for one another. My for him, after all he has suffered and -ing so much. I would kneel and wash his feet if that would take away a moment of his sadness...do it everyday if it would take it away forever. Wouldn't you. I hope.
I said hello and he asked how I was. How ever did I answer doesn't seem appropriate. Even if I were to have told a lie of some made up tragedy I was dealing with, the lie would soon disappear and his reality would haunt me forever. I said that I was doing well, thank you and with my cold and unsteady arm leaned in, patted him on his left arm and ask how he was doing.
He smiled softly, little creases that weren't there before now appeared stronger than a grandmother's laugh lines. He didn't answer as fast as I did, but when he did he too placed his hand on my hand and said he was doing....sigh... fine. He gently patted my hand, now warm.
It's amazing the love, the energy one can still feel even in pain.
It's as if the love from his dear son has filled his heart now more than in his living years. If that even makes any sense. It doesn't make sense. Never will. But he does.
So he sat and I stood in silence for what seemed like hours, but only seconds until my order was ready.
"Madelmoiselle, yo soupp". ( I don't bother to correct her, now that I am actually a Madame, her sweet as dulce de leche voice sounds so dear saying Mademoiselle, Madame just wouldn't sound as romantic.)
I pay, look back and forth between the busy everything counter of jellies, brioche and marzipan snowmen and the father. I hate that I was interrupted by my stupid soup order.
I say my goodbye to Madame and then....
I would go on with my day, eat my soup, have some tea and maybe even splurge on an eclair and forget the pain we shared just then.
He will have that after I exit, as I walk back to my "other life", as I eat my " other " soup and continue.
I looked back as I wrapped my only cold right hand around the paper take out bag and his hand was as I left it, not closed anymore but open.. hope that the healing can start.
The comfort of the willingness to reach out and give. More than I can say.
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