Nothing But

Friends,
Something you should know about me: Sometimes I write for you. Most of the time, I write for me.

Love,

Jenn

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Yesterday, I met a man 58 years married and 3 years a widower. He smiled warmly at Don and I across the table in the waiting room. He tentatively began a conversation with us. He was a kind man, you could see it in his face; the way his eyes sparkled as he spoke and the easy laugh which echoed his words drew me in. He began to natter incessantly as if he was in a hurry to talk to someone, since as he explained he didn't have much chance to do so nowadays. He grinned as he talked away with animated hand gestures and dramatic expressions. He talked about everything, and he talked about nothing. I had a hard time joining in the conversation fully (the Dutch was a little fast for me) but I found myself captivated by his monologue and fascinated by his speech. He spoke about his life, his language, his wife. We asked questions, he answered. After a few minutes, suddenly more earnest than before, he looked at me and with definitive gesture, his hand pointing between us and circling us in, said "You must remember, you have him and he has you. That's what's important."

I believe he spoke the truth.

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