Harry

I stopped by the Harris Teeter supermarket for a Starbucks blonde pour-over with steamed half and half. I saw my good friend Harry sitting at a table in his wheelchair. He said, “You should pull up a chair and join me.”

Harry was once involved in an accident. His injuries should have killed him, but he made it. Somehow, he made it. He had a head injury. It affected his motor movement and speech center. It takes great effort for him to talk, but he can definitely hold a conversation. And every time we talk, I learn something simple, yet profound at the same time. His speech is not unlike that of a person with cerebral palsy or muscular dystrophy. There will be higher pitch where none is intended. Breaks. But he’s sharp and he’s a wise man. He asked what I’d been up to. He lives close by, but I rarely cross paths with him. I need to change that.

Harry is extraordinary; confined to a wheelchair yet he propels it with his legs. Ain’t an ounce of quit in him.

He talked about his parents and how, even at 67, he needs order, a routine, rituals. Like an afternoon nap. His folks were alcoholics.

He asked me to remove my glasses, they made him uncomfortable. But they’re prescription, with three different strengths and grinds. They’re also the darkest sunglasses I could get. My sight is getting worse despite prescription drops, OTC drops and my best efforts to stay out of direct sun.

But my glucose levels must have been spiking because my visual acuity keeps getting worse. I explained this to Harry. He continued the conversation. I remained even after finishing my coffee; they never make it hot enough and even steamed creamer doesn’t matter.

Harry laughed. Joked. Was positive. If he, without the full use of his own body, can be positive and inspirational, then so can I.

I shook his hand, and he has a steel grip. I like that. A strong and self assured man. I bade him good day but stopped and said, “Brother, I want you to know, it’s always a good day when I get to see you.”

I’ve surely done more than my share of burning bridges. Not this time.

Harry…is my friend.