Mr. Smith was a regular at the restaurant. Every Saturday and Sunday, he would come down the stairs from the street, using not only his well-worn cane for support, but also the arm of some well-meaning patron or restaurant employee. She looked up from the stack of linens she had been folding and saw him, slowly making his way to the hostess stand where he would be greeted with the usual warmth and, hopefully unbeknownst to him, hidden pity that always accompanied the encounters between the employees of the restaurant and the old man. Immediately, she had gone to help him to the most convenient table for him to reach, which, today, happened to be in her section. She offered him the use of her arm, and he accepted it. This was the first time in the last few months she had been the one to help him to his table, so she was caught completely unawares when the older gentleman's hand clamped down on her like a vice grip. The seeming desperation of his grasp alerted her even more than his ragged appearance had as to the rapid deterioration of his health. She felt the strong burn of tears beginning behind her eyes, as much due to the pain of his fingers digging into her skin as to the realization that the gentle man beside her was becoming more and more feeble. It was heartbreaking to see someone become so frail right before her eyes week after week. How odd that cycle was that began a person's life completely weak and dependent on others to care for him and seemed to end the exact same way. How humiliating to have grown in knowledge and autonomy throughout one's life, only to near the end of it clinging to some waitress' arm, literally shuffling along, making the strongest physical effort possible just to make it to a chair twenty feet away. Was this the normal progression?
As she smiled falsely, trying her best to alter her feelings of pity into a more suitable feeling of sympathy, which tends to sound more dignifying in nature, she thought of her grandfather. He had passed away the previous year due to complications with a stroke, which had completely addled his mind. In fact, the doctor had stated an appropriate way to describe what the clot had done to her grandfather's brain. The tiny pinprick of gathered platelets had shattered it. The briefest of moments had stolen his memories, his awareness, his cleverness, his sense of humor - his dignity. It was not unusual to visit him in the nursing home the family had placed him in afterward only to find him completely unaware of who anyone was, including himself. Gone were the days of games of checkers, which he never let her win, teaching her that life doesn't just hand you things; the long stories of his childhood; the friendly teasing; and the constant reminders of how proud he always was of her. Then it hit her, as she helped Mr. Smith slide into his seat. She may not have a film in the works, or a role in a Broadway show. She may have a Masters and yet still be waiting tables in her thirties. But at least she had that. Her family. Not many people had a family like hers, one in which every member was always ready to say, "I love you, and I'm proud of you." Yes, they had their dysfunction, like every family, but they also had love. And they had each other. And Grandpa.
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