There is a gentleman living in our neighbourhood who has suffered a stroke. His right side, arm and leg, have difficulty moving. Every day he dresses in a gentlemanly manner, in suit and tie, just like my grandfather did even after he retired.
If I gaze out a window, as I did this evening, and I see him on his way to the bus stop across the street from us, I stand still and accompany his journey with a pray. It takes him ten minutes to cross the road at the pedestrian light and walk the fifteen meters to the bus stop.
When pedestrian light turns green, and the traffic light red, he ventures slowly, methodically out onto the street. He often just makes it off the sidewalk onto the street, before the pedestrian light turns red. And then, all the drivers in the buses or cars waiting at their green light sit and watch how he painstakingly makes his way across the rest of the street. Never once have I heard anyone honking their horn, nor placing their foot heavily on the gas, in the process of him crossing the street. It is as though the sight of this man’s silent and courageous efforts slows the blood in their veins and the urgency of their busyness.