HENRY

By Linda Nixon
Copyright 1997


I went to touch his weathered, aged hand,
but the deep scars and dirty welts I seen,
rather frightened me.
So my consoling effort became superficial.
Unable to touch him physically,
I set beside him humbly.
Listening,
as he unwrapped a small piece of history.

A tale of uncommon woe.
He mourned for his lost wife,
who had,
allegedly,
been stolen from him .,
by a hit and run driver recently.
He was desperate to find the funeral home where she laid.
But he had a problem remembering the location,
and name.

He said it was a shame,
none of the family came.

I inquired if he had any children?
The reply came in a puzzling way.
He rattled off several names,
along with each birthday.
An insight where more then what he said was conveyed.
Wondering if this list of kin were true,
why was this old soul travelling a road,
only the forgotten knew?

A cloud of confusion seemed to take over his mental view.
As if that unasked question was one he well knew.
An eclipse of pain covered his dull,
troubled eyes.
Suddenly he turned his face to mine.
His tarnished facade surprising became alive.
Transforming into an innocent, young childs.
I was granted a heavenly smile.

Immediate I understood.
This neglected man was not alone.
God was protecting him with His own wounded hands.
With a glimpse of purity,
his devoted keeper was peaking at me.

Now unafraid,
I reached out and held his decaying hands.
My fears washed away in a
compassionate wave.
A tender smile was shared,
we were both children of a father who cared.

Another lonely heart in a massive city too save.

His or mine?
It was hard to say.

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