Mr. Bright

Mr Bright lived next door to us on 2nd st. in Park Slope. At first, I thought his name was Mr. Right, but when I realized my mistake, it made more sense. He was more much more Bright than Right. The years have been kind to Mr. Bright, and although he had a walker and a curved withered spine, his eyes shone with a joie de vivre that is hard to find in a teenager. It was not that Mr. Bright was above us humans, with our dirty little secrets, flaws and misfortunes, it was just that he existed.

“A person, a stranger, who you will never see again, can affect you in unimaginable ways,” my sister said in a phone conversation, in one of our many meandering life discussions. Before she even finished the sentences and the explanations of her theories, the speedy light technician in my brain spotlighted Mr. Bright and the memory of the first time I met him.

He was coming back to his building and I was checking my texts on the stoop. I knew he was my new neighbor, but he didn’t realize it yet. I saw him pushing his walker along the cold fall sidewalk, he had two bags of groceries and they seemed to get tangled on his walker with each step. There was not much in them. How cruel was the aging process, I thought, that this poor man could not even get two almost empty plastic bags home without having to endure aggravation of his physical limitations.

“Let me take these bags for you,” I said, feeling uncomfortable for sounding like a cliche. He happily handed them over and continued to hobble slowly behind me towards his home.

“I always have angels who comes when I need them,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice, “thank you.” His simple phrase filled me with quiet warmth. His voice was high and beautiful.

Why this little memory, out of the other, more significant moments that overflow the limited RAM-space of my mind? Something about that moment continues to give me hope for humanity, hope that we are angels, angels who help each other, and one day when I am stumbling along, I will feel this way. And maybe I am being helped now, even if, I am not as aware of it as Mr. Bright.

Lyrics:

“Heart Of Gold”

I want to live,
I want to give
I’ve been a miner for a heart of gold.
It’s these expressions
I never give
That keep me searching for a heart of gold.

And I’m getting old.
Keep me searching for a heart of gold
And I’m getting old.

I’ve been to Hollywood
I’ve been to Redwood
I crossed the ocean for a heart of gold.
I’ve been in my mind,
It’s such a fine line
That keeps me searching for a heart of gold.

And I’m getting old.
Keeps me searching for a heart of gold
And I’m getting old.

Keep me searching for a heart of gold.
You keep me searching and I’m growing old.
Keep me searching for a heart of gold
I’ve been a miner for a heart of gold.

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One response to “Mr. Bright

  1. I love it the way it is written. No corrections needed(from my point of view).

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