He is entirely too young for the tremor that causes his hands to jerk the mouse across the pad, voice to tremble, and head to continually nod.
I would have put him in his late 40s, perhaps early 50s. No wrinkles, hair starting to turn translucent, a fair complexion, red hair that was beginning to fade. He was unfailingly polite and courteous, solicitous, wanting to help but getting tripped up by the tremor.
I smiled because that’s what I do. He didn’t look up, just focused on the screen. When he wrote things down for me, his handwriting was that old man’s scratch, slow, unsteady, deliberately forming letters that he intended to be small but wound up bigger.
I wanted to tell him that in a small way I understood…certainly not what he must be facing but there were small flashes if it in my life. Times when my fingers can’t grip the pen and my tongue is so thick there are no words to trip over because none can escape.
Instead, I thank him for his help, smile brightly, and leave, remembering what is head for him, saddened by the path he must travel.