THE OLD MAN WITH THE CANE
By David W. Elliot
I saw an elderly man pass by. He was the last to leave my boat, and the last to leave my mind. It was hot and beads of sweat poured down a tired, exhausted, and colorless forehead. Sparse, faded white hair partially covered a bald head. Wrinkles lined his face and a pair of wired spectacles hung loosely on his nose. In his right hand he used a cane and with his left he pushed himself along the gangway. I mentioned to him that he was putting himself in shape real fast. I could tell he didn’t have many years left. But here he was, out seeing what he could see and taking it all in. He wanted to be satisfied in his own mind that he had made an attempt to see everything he could see, and he won. He smiled and said something in return to my comment, but I did not hear. For I was too busy understanding in my own mind the courage and determination of this old man. I tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Have a good night.” He kept on poking the cane on the ground, now moving on in what seemed a little bit livelier grace.
That moment – so quick – so brief – yet a sense of communication passed between us. The elder and the youth. I wanted him to know there was someone out here pulling for him. I think he knew. I’ll never see him again, but I’ll always remember the old man with the cane.
Written at Disney World, Orlando, Florida