Honor

Not long ago, when I was at the beach, I observed something very touching. A humble scene. It wasn't anything I'd have noticed if I weren't paying attention.

We were eating in a restaurant that faced the beach. Through the windows was the boardwalk and I could see the people coming and going, up and down the stairs to the beach. I had a pretty good view of the ocean and much of the beach as well.

There were couples holding hands, moms with kids, and Mr.Bubbleman who has an attachment on his bike so, when he turns it on, he rides around with bubbles coming out the back of it. There were colorful people -- one lady had missing teeth and her daughter had hair of three distinct shades -- and there were plain and simple folk. I saw kites and bikes and strollers. I saw joggers and people testing out the water. Of course there were several dogs. We are at the beach.

My eyes have to move quickly just to see what's in front of me. I was glad I'd had a cup of coffee to keep me warm because now it was helping me be alert, to join in each story that walked by. Activity. Color. Movement.



And when I saw them my eyes stopped moving on.
I watched honor as it played out before my eyes, over my skillet breakfast.

A tiny old woman and a tall younger man. Maybe a mother and son. Maybe an old aunt. Is she a nun? It was breezy and she was wearing a thin dress. Bare legs and ankles underneath. She was zipping up her jacket and pinning her head wrap. I don't see how she will keep warm. She won't be out there long. He was waiting patiently and even respectfully helping her. Then he supported her as they walked down the stairs and began to walk toward the ocean.

Stopping to bend down and look at something. Stopping to catch her breath. Sometimes taking steps closer and more quickly. I expected shuffling, but often she picks up her feet as she steps. He's patiently walking. He's talking to her. She's talking to him. They smile. S l o w l y they walked all the way to the ocean.
It's cold out. The coastal winds are huffing and puffing. Yet they stand at the edge of the ocean. They turn and look around. They stand and chat. Maybe in a language I don't understand. They have all of the time in the world. No hurry. A fluttering, aged hand grasps at the place on her neck where her sweatshirt is opening up a bit and some of the cold can invade. She leaves her hand there.

I go outside to watch. I want to take a picture but don't have the strong lens with me.
Such patience. He's moving on only as she is ready. He could have rushed down to the water's edge, picked up a shell or two to show her, then ran back to his car and on to the next thing. 10 minutes and he's done. It has been at least 30 minutes now.

I take it back. He isn't being patient. He is relishing his opportunity.

They get an extra hard gust and stop to adjust her balance. Then start walking quickly. I think they are coming back now. But no. They stop and chat. She bends over and flips something over and back then stands back up. What is she thinking? Is she remembering something? Is there a reason for this trip or is it just for a lark?

He isn't just tolerating her. He is enjoying her enjoyment.

Her slippers don't match.

They are almost to where I am. I am snapping away, trying to act like I am just getting scenic shots. I can't get a close up without maybe worrying them. My opportunities are past now for any more pictures. I watch him help her up the long stairs again. I went back inside and didn't see them leave. I bet they stood on top and looked down again.

He gave honor. In every movement, every gesture. By the time he invested, not by the time he allowed. And I was honored to observe.