“Is it too late for me?” – Matt Monica

Is it Too Late for me?

He walked into the luncheon long after it had begun.  His walk was slow and labored, almost tortured.  He was a long time coming to sit at a table already filled with others.

“Has he had a stroke?”  Ronnie Green asked, as he observed Matt coming directly toward him.

Moments after Ronnie’s comment, Matt arrived.  That’s when others at the table happily shifted their chairs so they could create room for the latecomer to sit on the chair that seemed to almost magically appear, as Matt bent to sit down, as he talked with Ronnie.

“Is . . . it . . . too . . . late . . . for . . . me?” Matt Monica asked immediately after accepting the offer to sit in the chair.  “I . . . haven’t . . . been . . . out . . . to . . . attend . . . anything . . . for . . . the . . . past . . . two . . . years; after . . . my . . . wife . . . passed . . . on.”

He spoke slowly; haltingly, his words coming out as if sprinkled over soil hoping for more.  Yet, his sincerity acted to quench all thirst, as tears streamed from his eyes.  He yearned for companionship.  That was clear.  So, I sat with him as the room cleared.

When everyone else had left the room, we still sat.  He ate until the food on his plate was gone.

“Is it too late for me?”  Matt asked again.

“No!”  I replied.  “It will never be too late for you.”

I could see why he asked the question again.  Workers had come into the room to clean and clear it.  They politely worked around us, without saying a word.  Finally, the room was cleared all around, so Matt and I got up and began to walk toward the exit.

“Do you need a ride home?”  I asked.

“No.  I . . . drove . . . my . . . car.”  Matt responded.

We emerged from the building and stared into the west parking lot. He looked around as if confused.

“What color is your car?”  I queried.

“Green.”  Matt said.

There was no green car in sight, so I asked him to wait a moment while I walked to the other side of the building to check an adjacent parking lot.  His car was there.  So, I returned to Matt.

He put his hand on my shoulder, to steady himself, as we walked around the corner of the large building toward his car.

“I’ll . . . be . . . your . . . friend . . . forever!” Matt promised, as he slowly put his key into this car door lock.  He stooped.  He sat.  He smiled, “I’ll . . . call. . .  you!” He started his car. 

I watched as he drove away. I remembered and pondered, as he navigated, toward his home.

Matt had walked into our “celebration of life luncheon” long after it had begun.  His walk was slow and labored, almost tortured.  He was a long time coming to sit at our table, a table already filled with others and we all made room for him to sit with us.

He spoke slowly.  Haltingly, his words coming out as if sprinkled over soil hoping for more.  Yet, his sincerity acted to quench all thirst as tears streamed from his eyes.  He was yearning for companionship.  That was clear.  So, I sat with him until long after the room was cleared by the staff.

“Is . . .it . . . too . . . late . . . for . . . me?” Matt Monica asked immediately after accepting an offer to sit in a just offered chair.  “I . . . haven’t . . . been . . . out . . . to . . . attend . . .  anything . . . for . . . the . . . past . . . two . . . years; after . . . my . . . wife . . . passed . . . on.”

“No Matt, it isn’t too late for you!” I said to the blue sky above us, as I watched his old, well-worn, green car drive slowly to the east; hoping he would, indeed call me.

It isn’t too late for anyone, as long as there is just one of us willing to simply be there to offer simple, amiable, companionship.