A Special Person, Gone but Remembered, Fondly

I never knew his name, and he never knew mine, but he always asked me about Eli, my boxer. He would tell me how much he loved Eli, which I thought to be impossible. They barely knew each other.

His name was Billy, and, as it turns out, he is the one who died the other day, hit by a car. I had heard rumblings about the tragedy, the circumstances, given it a moment or two of pause, and then tucked it away with all the other things in life that are not my problem. Another death, close to home, but anonymous.

Anonymous until this morning, when a Facebook post popped up, about Billy. The picture took my breath away.

I had heard Billy long before I ever really paid attention to him, narrating his thoughts, seemingly to nobody, early one morning in my new local Starbucks. Other than an occasional grunt, nobody really responded to what he was saying, which didn't seem to faze Billy. I saw him almost every morning after that, and he would stop to tell me about his day, or whatever he was thinking. Sometimes I nodded politely; sometimes, I asked him questions; sometimes, especially at the beginning, I walked away quickly, thinking about all the unimportant things I had to do. I hate that I did that, even once.

Eli and Billy took to each other immediately. Eli loves attention, and Billy loved Eli's slobbery kisses. It's an acquired taste, and most people have yet to acquire it. It doesn't bother me that Billy didn't know my name; he thought of me as the lady who brought him Eli, which was really all that mattered. It bothers me that I never knew Billy's name, though, never thought to ask. Billy would be referred to, I suppose, as a "special needs" adult, but -- as far as I could tell -- Billy was special but not needy. He seemed to find joy in everything and in everybody. He appreciated the things we all take for granted, and couldn't wait to share his joy, even if some of us, sometimes, were too preoccupied to listen. If he needed anything, it was to make sure every person he met could feel the kind of happiness he felt.

We all need a little bit more of "Billy" in life. I will miss the sight of him riding his bike in the neighborhood, greeting everyone. I will miss the sound of his voice, a reminder of how he saw every small thing as a gift, the way a lot of the rest of us do not. I will miss watching him receive Eli's kisses, and I will miss having one more opportunity to ask him to tell me more about the cubs game, or his "Olympic" games, or his family. To let him know I shared his joy.