I am becoming a softy in my old age. My lunch time break from my laptop comprises of observing my café companions. And inadvertently several of them are elderly people, mostly above the age of 80. They are always alone, with shaking hands, tottering feet, faces lit with expectant smiles, waiting for another old lonely man to come join them at their table or an indulgent young woman to come smile and chat with them. I never feel un-shy enough to start a conversation but I confess I spend long minutes observing what they are drinking, who they are writing their letters to, what book they are reading, feeling absurd outbursts of affection and sorrow for them… and ofcourse (why I said I was a softy) agonizing over whether they’ll make it safely across the two roads with fast cars whizzing by.

My favorites are the old white man who writes endless letters to his “beautiful Marcelene”, the ancient woman in baggy pants and back pack who reminds me of a American version of Didu and the shaking old old man with the badly chapped lips who looks like he’ll fall down at any moment (he is the one I agonize over the most). He is crossing the road now, he made it over the break in the middle, PHEW and.. he is safely on the other side! He checks out his hair on the store window, pats down his few white strands and limps away. My proxy grandpa, I’ll be waiting for you tomorrow so look out for those cars even when I am not looking out for you!