Retrospection

 

            Daryl stood on the boardwalk alone, out beyond lay the ocean, its ebbing and pulsing created a hypnotical feel and he stared into nothingness, albeit far from absentmindedness, he thought of everything, every word, and every action, regretting so many things he had done and not done. The air was cool but not cold, his overcoat, with collar upturned kept him warm, yet he was content. The sounds of Mozart’s funeral requiem played in his mind, drawn from a memory of tens of thousands of hours of music, like a radio station with no knobs, no control, an incessant flow through his ever-active mind.

              The occasional passerby would momentarily block his vision and then move on, like everyone else in his life, these momentary blips that he appreciated but did not understand, of the multitude of smiling faces that may or may not have genuine feeling behind it. He had no way of knowing. He had learned to think the best of people but far too often that gesture of presumed kindness would be eradicated by a comment made about someone else’s comment.

              He turned his gaze from the ocean and looked far off to his left, an endless vision of hardwood walkway punctuated by seemingly happy people. But again, he possessed no way of knowing, for social interaction had always been a mystery to him, something that seemed to come so naturally to everyone else he knew. He could only look in from the outside, like a strange voyeur trapped in isolation but only wanting to understand. He knew all of the theories of human nature, he knew all of the expert opinions and analyzes but these were only guesses as mankind existed as individuals, not theories or averages.

              Looking up, his attention captured by a flock of seagulls moving together with an unseen connection, a mutual need or desire at least, for food. “They have it so easy,” he thought. “The curse of introspective thought is a burden when there is no one with whom to retrospect.” Shoving his hands back into his pockets, he turned to the right and started walking, alone with no specific destination in mind.

              Reaching the edge of town, he joined a sparse collection of people on the sidewalk, glancing at storefronts as he passed each one, enjoying the variety of items on display but disgusted at the same time with the obscene focus on wealth, comfort, beauty, and distraction. He crossed over an alleyway between stores and paused as he heard the thick, phlegmy cough of an old man sitting next to a dumpster, wearing no shoes, no coat, no hat, looking at him holding a small cup.

              Daryl dug into his pocket, looking for loose change but only found bills, stuffing one into the man's cup but also extended his hand to help him to his feet. The old man groaned, slowly straightening his back until he stood at full height, not much more than five feet tall, to release another racking cough, followed by a yellowish blob of expectorant spat onto the ground to his right. He removed his jacket, draping it around the man's shoulders and introduced himself, to learn that the man had been homeless for six months, dreading the onset of winter and commenting that both of his feet had gone numb.

              "Don't go anywhere, sir," he said, taking a quick look at the man's socked feet. "I'll be right back." He quickly cut across the middle of the street to enter a clothing store, giving a brief, friendly wave to the salesclerk, motioning for him to approach. Exiting the store with a new coat, a pair of shoes, a stocking cap, and a three pack of handkerchiefs, he used the crosswalk this time to rejoin the man at the mouth of the alley. The pair stepped behind the bright blue dumpster to unpackage and properly dress the old man, and doing so, he could see him relax and sigh, the sound of thankfulness in appreciation for the meeting of his most basic of needs.

              "I've not eaten dinner yet," he shared with the old man, "would you care to join me in a meal? It is always much nicer to dine with someone rather than alone." The two of them walked a block in the opposite direction to enter a diner and take a seat, as the small chalkboard instructed them to do so. Lifting the plastic-coated menus from the aluminum rack at the back edge of the table, Daryl decided on the mac and cheese dinner with a side of broccoli and the old man, whose name Daryl just then learned was Abraham, ordered the spaghetti dinner with garlic bread.

              While their meals were being prepared and while they ate, Daryl listened to a long and devastating story about Abraham's return from the war in the Middle East, the death of his wife, the destruction of his home and all of his belongings in an attack upon him via arson, having only his truck to sleep in and the eventual sale of it in order to buy food for himself which resulted in him living in an alley, having his shoes and jacket stolen, the state in which Daryl found him.

              He listened in silence, occasionally nodding, and offering his condolence without sounding condescending, all the while with a racing mind trying to fabricate a solution for the man's deplorable and distressing state. Having few actual friends and few connections, Daryl offered to pay for a motel room for a night to give the man the opportunity to sleep well and seek out further help from others in the community. As they finished their meals, the two men embraced, walked to the nearest motel and then walked separate ways, Daryl leaving a phone number for Abraham call if he needed anything and feeling happy that he was able to help someone in need but at the same time wishing he could have done more, the tiny house that he called home offering no extra room for a second occupant.

              He returned to the boardwalk on the edge of the shoreline to re-immerse himself into his introspection again, vacillating between grief for the old man and thankfulness for his own secure and stable situation, even if alone. "The evil that men do," he thought, replaying Abraham's story in his mind, his heart aching, while at the same time praying for him, trusting that someone else could provide some means of aid to rescue him from the street and deprivation, having literally nothing to his name other than the clothes on his back.

              The chill of the winter wind biting through his coat prompted him to begin the long walk back to his home, less than a mile down the boardwalk, all the while providing a beautiful view of the ocean and the moon floating just above the sky and waterline, an opulent, swollen, whitish orb, easily ninety percent full, casting its ominous light that kept his path adequately lit. He approached the wrought iron gate with brick pillars, following it to a similar wrought iron man gate accompanied by a keypad into which he punched his code, to walk past the massive mansions that filled every lot with the exception of his and his tiny house. Having been the first to buy a lot, his small home was grandfather-claused in, allowing him to stay comfortable and guiltlessly humble even while surrounded by opulence and wealth.

              As the evening was still bearably comfortable, he added extra layers of clothing and sat on his small deck attached to the back of his home, a speck of living space in a vast sea of manicured lawn surrounded by mansions of epic brilliance, beauty, and size, most housing middle aged or older couples with a handful of servants, most of whom Daryl knew by name. At this late hour, he enjoyed the darkness of his surroundings having positioned himself free from neighboring porchlights and streetlights, glorying in the vast black sky speckled with countless stars.

              In the darkness and silence, he thought back over each step of his life, each event, each decision, in awe of the hand of God directing him, even when painful and difficult, to bring him to this place where he could assist others, while addressing only his own actual needs, befriending those alone, those empty and hurting, thankful for the grace given to him by his parents, his grandparents, his extended family, and those of his parish community. "Without love and compassion, we are nothing," he thought.