“My name is Ian.” He whispered, “I am Art.” ”Oh, yes you are,” I thought. | His name is Art. He is Armenian. I think. And he has been a neighbor of mine since we moved into our house back in the Fall of 2003. Yet, we have never met. Not formally. For years I would watch Art shuffle slowly from his front door to the end of his driveway where he would stand. And for years, I would wave or say hello. Art would just stare at me holding his left arm like it was a baby. He never waved back. Nor did he ever return a smile with a smile. Until today when he walked down the alley and in front of my house. “I’ve noticed you can walk further now.” This simple observation made Art smile. I took the time to introduce myself. “My name is Ian.” And I waited for him. In a quiet, raspy voice, this elderly man whose toes where coming out of his socks, whispered “I am Art.” While I did not learn much about his background, like when he moved into the neighborhood or when he had his stroke, I did learn something about Art. He spoke with his eyes. He talked with his smile. And he shared his emotions with his right hand. It was strong. |
This is Art.
By the way, I didn’t tell him what I was doing, or why I was doing it. I didn’t ask for a picture or his permission to publish our moment together. I fear it would have taken the joy and reverence out of the moment. But I met him. So it counts. Probably more than I will ever know.