It had been a while since I’d seen him, unless you count the night he was pushing his buggy across the parking lot at Wal-Mart, and that was only from a distance.  I remembered thinking about how his wife once made those trips, but her illness and then her death had forced him to shop for himself—just one of many mundane, daily tasks he was now called upon to perform.

On this day business required that we meet—his business, not mine.  I was in need of his services so an appointment was made, one I didn’t particularly relish keeping.  But in spite of my apprehension, I also looked forward to seeing him.  He and his wife had been good friends with my parents for more years than I could possibly remember.  Seeing him again reminded me of that friendship and gave us the opportunity not only to visit but to reminisce as well.  He recounted tales of my dad I’d never heard and spoke of his admiration for my mother and her insistence that everything always be done just so.  I thought of their friendship and the years it had spanned—and how sorrowful my parents would have been at the death of his wife had they not preceded her.  She was such a kind soul, gracious and with a true gift for making people comfortable in her presence.  The world had grown a little dimmer with her passing and I knew her absence weighed heavily on him.

The time came for me to leave and, just before I headed out the door, I turned and impulsively told him I needed a hug.  He wrapped both arms around me, as I did him, and we stood for a moment, I believe each of us drawing comfort from the other over shared losses.  As we separated, he looked at me, eyes red with emotion, and said, “It’s the hugs I miss the most.  Every morning she’d come down the stairs and hug me before I left for work.  I miss those hugs.”

It’s the little things, people.  It’s always the little things that mean the most, certainly when you have them, but especially when you don’t.

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