a lesson on seeing
what’s not there

by bob strating

Her name is Katherine. She was pointed out to me at the wedding reception early in the evening. She was 99 years old I was told, and for 99 she looked pretty good, but there are not a lot of people to compare her to at that age either. She looked frail, and somewhat distant. I avoided her as much as I could, being somewhat uncomfortable around the elderly or infirm, perhaps too aware of my own mortality.

Later that evening, I was standing by a table and I felt a gentle tugging at my sleeve. I looked down and there was Katherine, offering me the empty seat next to her. At first I declined and attempted to join the conversations around me already in progress, but conversations slowed, and again I felt the gentle tugging at me sleeve. This time I sat down and thanked her.

At first we talked tentatively and politely. Where was I from? How was I related to the others in the room? And she nodded and feigned interest as did I. Then something happened. While talking of my old hometown of Chicago, one of us mentioned the art institute as a favorite place, and something palpable changed in her right then. She told me the last time she had gone there was to see a Monet exhibit and oh!, how she loved Monet and all the Impressionists! And she brightened as she talked. When I told her I was fortunate enough to have been to Paris and seen his Waterlilies paintings we were off on a non-stop tour of Europe together, marveling at the art, the architecture and the history. And she held her wrinkled hands together under her chin as if in prayer. And she spoke of her favorite places. Florence! Michelangelo’s sculptures! And she wondered aloud how he could look at a block of stone and see the wonderful figures waiting to be brought out. Such beauty. Such wonder. Something very strange happened as we talked. For just a little while, Katherine and I were very young. And we walked together through the galleries and cathedrals. We wandered the sidewalks over the canals of Venice. I watched with her as, when she was a child, she would see the schooners come into the bay in Seattle, laden with the gold of the Alaskan gold rush. And her eyes were bright and alive and I hung on her every word.

But then it was time to leave. And I looked back at her and she was a small frail lady of 99 again. I thanked her for the wonderful conversation and she thanked me as well. But I think I learned something that evening. I think perhaps now I understand just a little of how Michelangelo felt when he looked at the marble block and he was able to see not what was THERE, but what was within. All the beauty and strength, just waiting to be released. I also hope I’ve learned to not dismiss those gentle tugs on the sleeve that come along now and then. I would have missed so much if that second tug had not come.

So thank you, Katherine. Neither you nor I will probably ever see Europe again, and God knows we will never be young again. Chances are you and I will never meet again. But I wont forget the time I spent with a wonderful young lady as we explored the places we both loved. You are an amazing lady and I’m glad to have talked to you. Thanks for tugging at my sleeve.