I met him four years ago. This quiet, shrunken, grizzly man appeared at our door to tune our piano. Silently, he worked for several hours. He didn't talk more than he had to, but neither did we since we could hardly communicate in Polish.
This morning, he appeared again. Same man, same enormous glasses dangling by a string, same bags of interesting instruments to clean our piano and same slippers that he changed into at the door and shuffled to the living room.
Today he was here four hours. Again, he silently began his work. "Prosze, Pani!" he said one time and motioned me to the keyboard. There littered under the keys were layers of dust as well as a few treasures that had managed to squeeze between the keys. "Wiedzisz (you see)???" he said as he gravely shook his head. "How many years ago did I work on this piano? Six or seven?" I assured him that it had only been four. "Too long!" he continued. "You must have it cleaned every year!" I silently nodded my head. I felt properly reprimanded. He muttered to himself as he continued cleaning, polishing, and adjusting. I had never yet seen him smile.
He stopped two times to go outside and smoke. He asked once for a half cup of hot tea. I thought it would be rude to eat our lunch in front of him, so we asked him if he would like some soup. "Of course, but maybe later," and he once again concentrated intently on his work.
Finally, he was finished. We set the soup in front of him. "Um! This soup is good!" he said. And for the first time I saw him smile. In fact, I could tell he was enjoying it immensely. "Do you cook?" I asked him. "Seldom." He ate like he hadn't enjoyed food for a long time.
Once again, we gathered around the piano, thanking him for all his work. He took Alli's hands in his and helped her play "Happy Birthday." "Do you have grandchildren?" we asked him. A sadness fell over his face. "No, my son died before he had any children. My wife is dead. I'm alone." And he shrugged his thin shoulders in resignation.
My heart went out to him as he gave us this brief glimpse of his lonely life. We invited him to come back again. Will he? Will we have any more chances to influence his life? I like to recall the beaming smile that came over his face as he tasted the soup. Will we have more opportunities to bring joy to his lonely life?
This morning, he appeared again. Same man, same enormous glasses dangling by a string, same bags of interesting instruments to clean our piano and same slippers that he changed into at the door and shuffled to the living room.
Today he was here four hours. Again, he silently began his work. "Prosze, Pani!" he said one time and motioned me to the keyboard. There littered under the keys were layers of dust as well as a few treasures that had managed to squeeze between the keys. "Wiedzisz (you see)???" he said as he gravely shook his head. "How many years ago did I work on this piano? Six or seven?" I assured him that it had only been four. "Too long!" he continued. "You must have it cleaned every year!" I silently nodded my head. I felt properly reprimanded. He muttered to himself as he continued cleaning, polishing, and adjusting. I had never yet seen him smile.
He stopped two times to go outside and smoke. He asked once for a half cup of hot tea. I thought it would be rude to eat our lunch in front of him, so we asked him if he would like some soup. "Of course, but maybe later," and he once again concentrated intently on his work.
Finally, he was finished. We set the soup in front of him. "Um! This soup is good!" he said. And for the first time I saw him smile. In fact, I could tell he was enjoying it immensely. "Do you cook?" I asked him. "Seldom." He ate like he hadn't enjoyed food for a long time.
Once again, we gathered around the piano, thanking him for all his work. He took Alli's hands in his and helped her play "Happy Birthday." "Do you have grandchildren?" we asked him. A sadness fell over his face. "No, my son died before he had any children. My wife is dead. I'm alone." And he shrugged his thin shoulders in resignation.
My heart went out to him as he gave us this brief glimpse of his lonely life. We invited him to come back again. Will he? Will we have any more chances to influence his life? I like to recall the beaming smile that came over his face as he tasted the soup. Will we have more opportunities to bring joy to his lonely life?
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