Death, Unnoticed

There's a man who works in the cafe where I work; his name is Jack. In the years I've known him, I've made a point of waving hello and sometimes stopping to chat. I believe he is developmentally disabled but not sure how or to what degree.  I have not bothered to find out.

I don't recall a particular spell in which he was uniquely absent from work or anything, but I stopped to say hi today and casually asked, "How are you doing?"  Oh the peril of casually asking someone, "How are you doing?", is that they may actually tell you.

I'm OK, he said, but could be better. I asked why, and he said, "January 20, 2011, my wife passed away." I choked up. One tear escaped, then another; here I am a total fool -- standing in the cafe, wondering who is seeing me in this condition.  It took a moment before I no longer cared.

Jack told me about his wife, Cathy. She was older than him, they were together for 34 years. He said he has his bikes to keep him company, and he has in-laws in Bremerton who still invite him over. He told me she passed in her sleep, and The Mom [that's how he put it] told him that it's very selfish of us to want someone to live if they are in "that" condition.

I don't know where I was January 20 of this year, but I know Jack will remember that day for the rest of his life. He told me he has a photo album full of pictures, and there's no way he would throw that away. He also told me that he's not interested in remarrying, after all he's 64 and has to start thinking about retirement.

But that's beside the point. A human being so close went through a grievous event so large, and I didn't even notice.  Jack, for you I'm going to keep my eyes more open from now on.