His Name is Peter, Peter Walker

I saw him for the first time outside of my office, in the lobby; he was shivering.  Minus 25 outside and he had stepped inside to "get warm."  He told me that he couldn't remember where he was supposed to be and he had no idea how he found himself in my lobby.  I asked him if I could help, and he said "no, I just want to get warm and then I'll be on my way."  He kept his word and several minutes later he walked out of the main doors of my office back into the cold night air.  He lingered with me for quite a while - I was unsettled at my core and I couldn't understand why - I felt incomplete - there was something more that was supposed to happen. 

Universal perfection is my mainstay.  So I wasn't much surprised to find the same man standing outside of the gas station, kitty korner to my office almost 45 minutes later.  He was much colder now - his light jacket was no protection against the wind and without a hat, gloves, or a scarf his head was ruby red with icy snot dripping from his nose.  

So I walked over and said hello and again asked if I could help.  It was then that I noticed the hospital bracelets on one of his wrists.  I asked him if he had been in hospital recently - he offered he couldn't remember.  I stalled with mild chit chat as I thought about dialing 911 - after 5 minutes I said - "you know I'm going to make a call and see if I can't find a cop who could help us out."  He looked suspicious, nervous and I thought for a moment that he would walk away.   He stayed, I dialed, we talked,... about a lot of things.  His name is Peter, Peter Walker, he was born March 23, 1937.  He drank at one time in his life.  He'd been to California and like a Steinbeck novel had odd-jobbed his way across the state.  He had a son - but didn't see him much.  He had a wife but also did not see her much.  The more I looked at Peter, the more I noticed.  And after some time I began to have a felt sense that I had seen this man before.  He was more than familiar - I'd been in this man's presence before.  

My grandfather, Edward Townsend died of a brain tumour in England on the same day that our daughter Molly was born here in Toronto.  I hadn't seen Ted's gradual loosening grip on life - my mother, his daughter and my Aunt had been there to see those moments.  All I had and have are the memories of a man I met for the first time when I was 25.  He was full of life, passionate about painting, politics, art history, the gossip of his village and gardening.  He was both an intoxicating mystery and the solid ground of knowing underneath me.  In meeting Ted I could see more of myself and where I came from.  

If I have regrets in my life it is that I never said goodbye to my grandfathers - Ted, and Harry who also died several months later.  My relationship to my grandfathers was spotty and intermittent and virtually non-existent as an adult.  I had miles of distance between us - a cultural divide - and an unspoken message in my family that England and family in England was all about un-finished business.  So, I never bothered to create a bond with either man and that I regret.  I miss them both and I miss the part of myself that they know about me -as they were both a big part of my life when I was an infant prior to us emigrating to Canada.  I don't remember me at 2 or 3, I knew they did.   

Peter Walker is the spitting image of Ted.  The same angular, high cheek-boned face, the same full head of salt & pepper hair, short on the sides and back - lofty on the top.  The same tight lips and piercing eyes - eyes that had seen a lot - seen deeply  - seen through people.  

I asked Peter to come back to my car to get warm.  Once inside I drove him to the nearest Police station and with care handed him over to a young woman, who with grace, welcomed him and told Peter they would get him back home.  I cry as I think about the last 10 seconds, as I walked up to him, looked him in the eyes and shook his hand.  I thanked him and I said goodbye.

Goodbye Peter, goodbye Harry, goodbye Ted.