I knew a man who was ninety-six.
He had come up after mass and we met and talked now and then. I was shocked when he told me how old he was because he didn’t look it. He was upright and quick, with a fuzzy white beard, neatly trimmed.
He lived downtown next to the public library in a nice apartment with clean lines and wide windows. Paintings of sailboats hung on his white walls. He had painted many of them. He was taking art classes at the community college and made pots, too, and small, clay sculptures.
He had flown in a B-17 in the war and come back and worked for many years on the East Coast as a stockbroker and financial advisor. He was a natty dresser. He always wore ties with blue Oxford button-downs, his khakis pressed and creased.
He had an odd first name: Ormond. I never asked where it came from.
One day he invited me for coffee, and we sat in his bright study and talked. There was a signed picture of Ronald Reagan on the wall behind him. He was talking about the League of Nations and the problems with internationalism and the welfare state and it suddenly struck me: he wanted to be my friend. He was ninety-six years old and he wanted to make a new friend. He was insecure really and was trying to win my respect, as we all do when we meet someone.
He wasn’t done being lonely.
Outside the study window through the leaves of a rhododendron I could see the long back wall of the public library across the street. It was solid brick, and there were no windows or doors, they were all on the other side, and as I sat there, I imagined all the rows of books inside, all the stacks and shelves, and the air, quiet and dim, and the smell of books, the rich, dusky smell of books.
And I imagined a boy, maybe, wandering the aisles, searching the shelves for the book he needs. He is wearing jeans. A backpack hangs from his shoulder.
He stops and reaches up. He is maybe fifteen.
One paragraph follows another, page follows page, and he sinks to the floor and begins to read. Nothing has changed. The words are all there.