Yesterday I found an old man on the side of the road. He was just sitting there, quiet and alone. I stopped beside him and gave a hearty “Hello there!” The man said nothing. He just gave a somber look my way and smiled a content toothless smile. Something about that old man made me feel real warm inside so I invited him home with me. Still silently smiling, he got up with a little bit of a limp and climbed into the back of my van and away we were.
On the drive home I looked in the rear-view mirror and said, “So where are you from?”.The man said nothing. “Well can you tell me your name at least?” The man turned away from his view of the window and looked forward into the mirror. He just smiled. His cheeks scrunched up a bit and his eyes squinted a little. It was the kind of smile you knew was genuine. The kind of smile you give to a friend you really love and enjoy, but don’t know the words to say quite how you feel. It was that kind of smile. I suppose it was better than any name, so I didn’t ask anymore questions.
We pulled into my drive, and I took him inside. I slipped my shoes off at the door and he did the same. I looked down and the old man wore no socks! And his feet were filthy! Come to think of it his whole outfit was dirty. His jeans looked tired and muddy, like a farmer’s work jeans after years of field work. His belt had holes punched in it. I imagine he was a more full and strong man in his early years. The kind of man that didn’t pursue the luxury of new belts. And why would he? When one has a hammer and nail to punch through leather. I liked this man’s style.
His shirt had holes in the sleeves and there was motor oil on the cuffs. “What kind of work did you do in that shirt?”.He looked down at his arms, then back up at me, and simply smiled. I wanted to be annoyed at his silence, but when a man looks at you with that sort of smile you can’t help but feel a little lighter yourself.
His beard was dusty, and he had grime on his face, but it just made his smile look even kinder.
I asked him if I could wash his clothes for him, and he could wear a set of mine for the time being. His brow furrowed a bit as if my question was ridiculous, and he still kept that damn smile. His face seemed to say, “Silly boy, you think I need my clothes cleaned, don’t you? Well, I happen to like the way I look.”
So, we proceeded to move to the living room to sit down for the evening. Not sure of what else to do with this old man, honestly questioning why I even picked him up, I did what made sense. “Would you like some tea?” Smiling a grateful smile, he rocked his head up and down. Excited for what seemed to be the most explicit communication of the night I went to the kitchen. Boiled some water, got the plates, the cups, and opened the pantry. “What kind of tea would you….” I caught myself mid yell. Surely, he’s an English breakfast kind of character. I’ll take the lemon ginger.
With two steaming cups I walk back to the living room. The old man was as I had left him, sitting comfortably, smiling as if he was at a home. A home that he enjoyed being at for that matter. So, I sat down next to him, gave him his tea, and we sipped. Oddly enough I got a content sort of feeling sitting with that old man. As if I had shared the whole evening with an old friend in lively conversation. One last sip and my cup was empty. It was a spicy last sip. I let the ginger steep for too long.
I looked over and his cup was empty too, so I took our plates back to the kitchen and set them in the sink. “That was the best cup of tea I have ever had,” I thought to myself ,walking back to the living room. The old man was there smiling a smile that told me he agreed. I pulled a poetry book down from the bookshelf and sat myself back down beside the old man. I looked over at his face and smiled back at him.
I smiled the kind of smile that makes you feel a little exposed when you smile it. One that makes you feel like someone can see straight to your soul, but only comes around when you are in good company. A smile that makes you feel a little ashamed when it says you love sipping tea with old men and reading poetry. That smile that goes away around the same time middle schoolers learn how to snicker at each other instead of giggling together. I think the last time I smiled that way was the day before I learned that I was fat, or perhaps the day before I realized boys shouldn’t enjoy writing poems.
The old man with sparkles in his eyes smiled a smile just as true back at me and said, “Thank you.”
