There is this one elderly man that comes in to the restaurant at 6 o’clock on the dot every Friday night.
He wears the same Hawaiian styled shirt and blue jogging pants. He is 82 years old, and I know this because we celebrated his birthday two Fridays ago. He comes in by himself, sits in his usual table which we already have prepared for him, and spends around four hours there with us. He walks around and speaks with everyone. He knows the entire staff on a first name basis-except for mine since I’m fairly new-and he jokes around with them since he has known them for such a long time.
On the exterior, he seems so happy. Like nothing in this world bothers him. He orders his usual drink and at about 7 o’clock he sits at his table holding his drink in his hand. I warm up some bread for him and he eats in complete silence while staring into space. Unless one of us comes to him to exchange some words, he says nothing at all. He tells me I look like one of his nieces who’s name happens to be Karleta-that’s the only way he remembers my name. (My name is Karla, so it’s pretty similar.) He sits there for hours at a time, orders his meal, his dessert then just sits there doing everything so routinely that it is so clear that he has been doing this for years.
My boss once told me that it wasn’t always like this. His wife and him used to go there every Friday, together. But for the past four years, it has been just him by himself. He lost his wife four years ago. The person he loved the most in the world. Gone.
They had been married for fifty five years he tells me. Fifty five years. Can you imagine that? You spend your entire life with someone, and one day they are gone. What do you then? How do you survive?
His way of surviving is to keep every tradition he shared with her alive. He goes to the restaurant, he sits at their usual table, has their usual meal in remembrance of her. It is his way of keeping her memory alive. He stares at couples dancing with his eyes full of tears, because that used to be him, that used to be his life.
He refuses to dance with anyone and when asked to get on the dance floor, he shakes his head ‘no’ and points at his heart in a symbol of saying ‘I can’t. I’m taken, my heart is taken. My heart belongs to someone, and that someone is no longer here.’
His everything, his entire life is gone. He carries a picture of her in his wallet. A black and white photograph of her in maybe her thirties, sitting outside in the front yard posing for the picture. Smiling so warmly, as if she knew that moment would be captured forever, to sit in his wallet for the rest of his life. He showed it to me yesterday. Holding back my tears all I could say was, ‘She’s so pretty.’ He looked at me, looked at the photograph, and said with his voice breaking while breaking my heart, ‘It has been four years, but I just miss her so much.’
This was the love of his life. His reason for living. He jokes constantly but the pain is so clear in his face in his every movement, in his every word. I try to make him feel as less lonely as possible, by making him laugh and smiling at him when I know he’s feeling sad. I look forward to every weekend, because I know he’ll be there. With a heavy heart, but with his warm and caring smile to share with all of us.
I’m just scared that one Friday he won’t show up, because I know exactly what that will mean. He has given me hope that love is not something unattainable. Love is real, love exists. Undying, unconditional love. He has taught me that. I don’t know if he knows how much he has impacted me. But I know that this is the first time in my life that I witness what true love is. And I learned it through him and a photograph, and a memory.
I just hope that one day I will have someone to love me the way Angelo loves his wife. With the same deep and eternal devotion. That right there, is my deepest desire. I don’t know if that will happen, but at least now I know that it is indeed possible.
Thank you Angelo.
