An old man has been on my mind...

Yesterday as I rounded the corner to the parking lot where I leave my car every morning, I spotted it. The old, rusty camper van that is usually parked in the same lot. It was parked so close to my car, and I was so loaded down with bags - purse, lunch, bag of shirts to work on overnight, that I banged and rubbed up against it and was thoroughly surly by the time I had finally thrown everything in the back seats and squeezed myself in the small space between the doors.

I was downright exasperated. I had seen this van nearly every night for the past few weeks, and one morning when I came to the lot I even saw a newspaper stuffed under one of its windshield wipers.

"What the hell?" I thought. "Who the hell lives here, in this van?"

I thought about that for a while. Indeed, the van looked lived in. Stuff was piled up everywhere, in every little crevice. It didn't actually look like it could drive and it probably doesn't actually, except from one spot in the lot to another.

Yesterday as I sat, one hand trying to get the key in the ignition and the other reaching for the seatbelt, I glanced over at the van that had given me so much trouble, crowding me in like it had. What I saw weighed heavily on my heart.

Inside, at the wheel in the driver's seat was a little old man with white hair topped by a baseball cap. He sat with his deeply lined face in his hands. At first I thought he was sleeping until I saw his face twist up with emotion, and his shoulders shake as he was wracked with sobs.

I don't even think he knew I was there, and I definitely felt like I was intruding upon a very private moment. The thing was, I couldn't stop looking. I couldn't stop wondering why he was so very upset.

Maybe he was alone in this world, and I would be going home to have a phone date with my best friend Brenda, in Toronto.

Maybe he was so poor he couldn't get a place to live, and I was going home to a hot shower and dinner.

Maybe he was tired and weak and scared. That I understood.

I wished that I could go over and talk to him, gently rap on the window and just say...it's going to be okay. Someone does care about you.

But common sense prevailed and I realized, it could be a trap. Maybe he DID see me, and he launched into an act to get some caring young woman around to his door, to stuff inside his van. I've seen one too many episodes of CSI maybe, but a small woman can never be too careful.

Still, I drove away with that heavy heart, and tears in my eyes. Konrad sometimes thinks it's lovely I am sensitive - like when I cry at news stories of child abductions, or brutal sexual assaults or some other horrifying thing. As much as the actual story itself, I am haunted by the lack of ability to do anything. What could I do? Where would I start?

Surely there's some place I can start with this old man? Some small gesture I can make to let him know I am thinking about him?

Have you seen the movie Amelie? She's a lovely character who goes around spreading her quiet, anonymous magic and those left in her path are truly better for her efforts. Maybe I will buy him a garden gnome for his van, or maybe I will leave him an unsigned but caring note under his windshield wiper. I have to think about what it will be, but I know I must take some small action. I can't allow a man of such advanced years to live out what may be his last days thinking there was no-one who was saw his pain.