I was at the coffeeshop the other night when the couple two tables over caught my eye. The woman was in a wheelchair sitting next to a man who appeared to have some sort of mental handicap. They were in embrace, gently touching each other, acting as if they were saying goodbye to each other for the last time. Both of their eyes were closed and every few minutes they would exchange a kiss. They looked like they were on the verge of tears but you had a feeling they were happy.
I’m staring at this couple, who are oblivious to everyone around them, and realize that their lives are harder than mine will probably ever get. Their day-to-day struggle for normalcy is much more difficult than it is for anyone I know. But they sit there, holding each other, experiencing a strong, deep connection which I’m not that qualified to describe. For a second you wish you have what they have, a very honest and simple love, but then your world begins to fade back in; you hear the espresso machine whirl, the cellphones ring, the flip-flops flip-flopping. And then the mouthbreathers around you kill any remaining emotional thought in your head.
Her van eventually came and he stood by for 5 minutes until she was safely strapped inside. He gave her a final kiss goodbye. Their world is their own: less complicated, quieter, and slower. With what they have, I doubt they care much about anything else. I’ll try to think more about that later, after another day of meetings, phone calls, emails, traffic, drama, exercising, spending money, cooking, plotting, cleaning. Lessons like these always seem so strong when they happen, until they just disapear with the noise that we fill our lives with.