We board the shuttle for our destination and the mature gentleman who is our driver welcomes us and tells us where we are going. I am fixated on him and his words—steady and kind. He is tall, but not too tall and stands upright. He has silver hair topped with a ranger style hat. It’s his light blue eyes contrasted against the maturity of his silver hair and the comfort he finds in his own body that draws me in. When he’s finished speaking, my eyes are glassy and I look to my friend and say how beautiful that man is and I feel a lump in my throat. She agrees. She is equally mesmerized.
It is then that a recent image comes to mind and I recount it to her. I am sitting at the stoplight that is parallel with a shopping center. Waiting, I see a mature gentleman crossing the walk moderately with a slight limp in his leg. Each step he takes, he has to bring the right one around with just a little extra effort. He is clad in wheat colored slacks and matching hat and jacket—this man rests upon my eyes as if the sun is shining brightly on a wheat field. In his arms he is carrying a large bouquet of wrapped flowers, yellows and reds peek out from the wrap. I am nearly brought to tears at the sight. Where is he going I wonder. I imagine, he is headed to present some lucky someone with this lovely bouquet and looking dapper.
If he were a young man, dressed causally, or even a man in a business suit, would I have the same emotional response? There is something about those in their mature years that touches a part of me, humbles me and also brings me a sad happiness. Something more profound is brought to the gesture.
I was thankful the light was a long one. When it turned green, I crooked my neck, soaking in one last breath of that moment.