What I Saw When I Wasn't Looking

I was trying to park my car at the eye doctor's office today, driving slowly through the parking lot so as not to run over all the old people. (I'm always the youngest patient at the eye doctor's office, by about 30 years.) I was lost in my own little world when I saw something that stopped me in my tracks. Literally, I stopped. Well, I had to, because what I was looking at was this elderly couple walking right in front of my moving car. So I stopped and let them pass, but after they had walked away, my foot stayed on the brake as I turned to follow them with my gaze. Something about them arrested my attention.

The man had large, dark glasses on, the kind that you get after they've dilated your eyes and you can't stand the sun. He was having obvious difficulty seeing. The woman was wearing normal corrective lenses, but she was having quite some difficulty walking, taking small, unsure steps to maintain her balance. She had her arm through his, and his other hand grasped hers as she leaned into him. In a similar manner he leaned into her as she guided him. They clung to each other for dear life as they painstakingly helped each other across the parking lot.

I couldn't tell you anything else about them, what they were wearing, the average age they appeared to be, the type of vehicle they got into. I didn't notice. In that moment, the only thing I saw were two people, close enough to be one, counting on each other for each step they took. Something about it was so poignant that it was overwhelming. In that one glimpse, I learned something about life, the beauty and sorrow it holds, about true love and compassion and companionship. And I sat there, not trying to understand why I was overwhelmed with emotion, but just thankful that I had been.