Mr. L. senior, who hosted us during our stay in rural Utah, is 89, shuffling along on lean legs, his dark eyes framed with labyrinths of kindly wrinkles. On the 13th we helped him out with some gardening around the house, including some digging up of worn lawn to be replaced with a rock garden. A wild mountain wind thrashed about, driving the loose dirt into every crevice of my face. I worked with Mr. L, junior and senior, scooping up shovelfuls of earth and tossing them to the side. My body still ached from the Angels Landing climb the day before, but it felt good to work with dirt and throw it around. None worked harder than Mr. L. senior: he lifted the earth with steady rhythm and more endurance than most people half his age could boast.
Because of several complications, obligations, and a snowfall that essentially shut down Bryce Canyon, we headed home a day early, on the 14th. Before we left, I played the piano a bit for Mr. L. senior, and he sat in a black folding chair beside my bench and watched me play improv, and Les Mis songs, and old hymns out of a fakebook. I told Mr. L. senior that if I ever got to be his age, I wanted to be like him. He gave me a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek when we left, then sat on the porch steps he had built himself decades ago and waved at our departing van until we were out of sight.
I blinked back tears for a good twenty minutes afterward. To see someone so old and so strong broke my heart in its bittersweet beauty. I doubt I’ll see him again in this life, but I pray that we meet again in the next.
~Lisa Shafter
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