I remember an old man. I saw him on many occasions when I went to work. He would be cleaning the garbage cans on the overhead bridge when I was heading toward campus. He would use tissue paper to wipe clean the top part of the trash can, where it was intended to be used as an ash tray. He was focused and meticulous. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would choose to clean a public garbage can. Looking back, I think this must have been some kind of obsessive-compulsive behavior. I never spoke to him. No one did. He was just minding his own business. He didn’t look at any passersby. What I remember was a short, thin, older man scrubbing the garbage can in repetitive motions. He was not psychotic looking. He looked normal enough in his facial expressions and everything else. Nor were his bodily movements suggestive of any abnormality in mental function.
Years have lapsed since I last saw him. I imagine he might be dead by now, or too weak and frail to leave home. I feel sorry for him. I think only lonely people would pick up habits like this. He probably would not be doing what he did if he had a family. Does he know that someone who is a total stranger would remember him? Once I mentioned him to a colleague, but this colleague has no memory of such a man. I remember this old man. But we had formed no bond.
Every morning when I went to work I would walk past this pleasantly plump old woman, who always stood by a pillar in the mall to collect newspapers from people walking by who had finished reading them. She had a gentle face, wore the traditional clothing of elderly Chinese ladies and patiently waited for people to give her their papers. She was not aggressive or assertive, only sometimes reaching out her hand. A few weeks ago, I didn’t see her anymore and wondered what had become of her. One day, I plucked up enough courage to ask another woman who was now standing in her place if she knew. This other woman had no idea. I wonder if our paths will ever cross again. I had spoken to her once or twice. I remember her and liked her, but again, we had formed no bond.
Yet, I am bonded with this other old woman, as much a stranger to me as I am to her. She must be more than 80 years of age. She lives in a home (possibly with her family) in the village that I pass through every weekend when I go hiking. Sometimes I see her, sometimes I don’t. When I do, I always take my hat and sunglasses off, look at her and call out, “Good morning!” She will usually say something like, “Going for a hike?” and I will reply “Yes, what a hot day,” or something like that. Each time I see her, I greet her. But she doesn’t seem to hear me most of the time, or doesn’t seem to hear me well. She will respond with something a little off from what I said. I suspect she is hard of hearing. I hadn’t seen her for many weeks in a row. And I became worried. Had she passed away?
I do not understand why I feel a bond with her. But I do. You can say that what is involved is not bonding but attachment, as obviously the sentiment is one-sided. She is quiet, mild-mannered, likes to sit in front of her house in the village, likes to watch the world pass quietly by her and seems unconcerned. She definitely belongs to another time, another age. She doesn’t seem engaged in the modern world. Many weeks later, I saw her walking on the opposite side of the road, going toward the little town market, and my heart was relieved.
Throughout our lives, we must have formed bonds with many, many people. I wonder how older people deal with things or people with whom they have bonded, and then maybe lose contact with later in their lives?
