A Short Story
I boarded the tram to head back home on a beautiful summer morning. The weather had turned fresh and pristine after a couple of rainy days. These final days of August in Milan are so wonderful; each second feels worth living. It's hard to believe that just a week ago, in Bergamo at 9:30 pm, my ice cream melted onto my fingers in mere seconds. My sister's face looked funny as she helped me salvage the last bits of my gelato. Summer isn't exactly my favorite season!
In a few weeks, school will reopen, and I'm getting ready to prepare my lesson plans. I need to borrow some books and print out my notes. My colleague at work is fantastic – kind, precise, and always ready to help. We had a productive morning meeting, taking care of printings and discussing plans for the upcoming academic year.
I was on my way home, as usual, taking the tram instead of the subway. I find watching people walking, eating, and chatting in the town to be quite meditative. Luckily, the tram wasn't too crowded since many Milanese are still on their summer vacations. This gave me the opportunity to find a seat and gather my thoughts about the upcoming days.
As I was lost in my thoughts, I noticed an elderly hunchbacked man who sat down right in front of me. It wasn't the hunch that made him seem short; he was naturally of shorter stature. Despite his frail and thin appearance, his hands were surprisingly large and strong. The way he gripped the tram's green rod revealed that he must have been a hardworking man in his youth.
He appeared to be murmuring to himself, and I tried to discern if he was actually speaking or if his slightly moving lips were just a result of the tram's motion. His rough fingers brought memories of my dad to mind. It had been almost four years since I last saw him, and nothing could replace the joy of touching his hands again. I missed him dearly.
The elderly man seemed to belong to the middle class. His clean, slightly worn, undyed shirt with six pockets and his black cotton pants indicated they had served him well over the years. His well-waxed and shiny shoes completed the look. The loose fit of his clothes suggested that he had lost some weight in recent years.
His gaze remained fixed in one direction, his eyes dry and devoid of life. There was a noticeable absence of emotion in them. It was clear that he was on a mission – likely to run an errand and return home. His task was grocery shopping, and his blue-wheeled cart stood beside him, currently empty. He had also prepared for the rain by placing a high-quality black umbrella within easy reach. He seemed like an efficient soldier, his simplicity and organization leaving a lasting impression. The only thing that seemed slightly out of place was his red-framed glasses. Even after years in Italy, I still couldn't fathom the elderly Italian gentlemen's fondness for red frames, but oddly enough, they suited them well.
In my view, as people age, they generally fall into two categories. The first group fights against the passage of time, wearing vibrant clothes and expensive watches to demonstrate their enduring enthusiasm for life. The second group accepts the simplicity of aging, focusing on healthy living. They acknowledge that time is limited and prioritize practicality over aesthetics, color, and cost.
It's easy to see which group the old man belongs to. His choice of a six-pocket shirt reflects his desire for practicality, allowing him to better organize his belongings. The thick fabric also serves to keep him warm.
As I reached my destination and prepared to disembark, I took one last look at the old man. He was still muttering to himself, his one-sided, lifeless eyes fixated on something unseen. The tram came to a stop, and I bid him farewell.