Sorrow For a Stranger

He sits down, alone, in a cheap, plastic booth at a fast-food joint, and leans his cane against the table. His right leg appears boneless, just a loose appendage hanging from his hip socke, that he has to drag around. He eats his hamburger that he ordered off of the dollar menu, and moves on to his kid-sized chocolate milkshake. As he gets down to the last few sips, he struggles to keep the cup still on the table. He shakily lifts up his right arm so that he can hold the cup with one hand and guide the straw with the other, but like his leg, his right arm is limp and lifeless, rendering his hand useless. Sorrow begins to claw at my open heart, eroding any emotional strength that may have existed before. I am overwhelmed at the sight of this fragile old man, sitting alone in a fast-food joint, struggling to make his body cooperate. I can feel tears crawling into my eyes and trying to escape down my cheek. Even though he might be perfectly content in his life, I feel this desire to help him, and tell him he's not alone, and that the aching pangs of loneliness are familiar to me too.