He sat beside me quietly, and it wasn’t until we had to choose a writing partner that I noticed him. Plaid shirt. Suspenders. Whether he was telling me of his close encounter with death at the age of 17 when he had rheumatic fever and the doctors put needles in his throat, or growing up on a farm in Missouri, or his navy experiences in Korea, or being accused of not doing a job he was told to do, he told his stories with studied confidence in what he was saying, as if he was reading out loud the story of his life.
To punctuate each story he told, he would turn and look at me with a wry smile and infectious crinkles beside his eyes. I know this face. I found myself looking at him and forgetting to listen. I couldn’t get past how much he reminded me of my grandfather and how much I felt I was having a conversation with him. Of all the people in the room, this was the person I was paired up with, someone with my grandfather’s face and manner. I knew I could draw his face, but I couldn’t do justice writing about him. I struggled to pull myself back in to his words, to listen to his words, his story, taking in the whole person before me.
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