He was sitting alone, a young man in his twenties, quietly singing to himself in a high sweet tenor. His white cane, tucked at his feet, was easily within his grasp. He didn’t seem to need help.
Still, I wondered. Should I talk to him? Let him know someone was nearby, just in case?
I must be honest. I didn’t want to. I had been perfectly happy reading and reminiscing about my visit with my daughter and her family when a Delta airline representative brought the young blind man to this gate where I awaited my flight from St. Louis to Minneapolis.
The woman sitting next to me befriended him, chatting away, and she even escorted him to the men’s bathroom. I was just thinking how nice it was of her to do that when her flight was called, she grabbed her carry on, and suddenly he and I were alone.
Four empty chairs separated us, and he probably didn’t even know I was there. Should I tell him? I studied my e-reader.
Of course. I moved closer and said, “Excuse me.”
He turned towards my voice, slightly surprised. I continued. “Just want you to know I’m down at the end of the row, in case you need anything. Give me a holler.”
His face lit up, and he said something I no longer remember, but it was the beginning of a fascinating hour and a half chat. I never moved back to my old seat. He was a good conversationalist, interesting and articulate.
A picture of his blind world emerged as we talked. He lived in Lincoln, Nebraska and flew regularly to St. Louis where he was part of a sleep disorder study for the blind. People without sight often have a difficult time sleeping since their bodies do not know whether it’s night or day. He had not been able to sleep normally his entire life, and frequently was so tired his head would flop over. When he’d heard about this particular study, he’d been thrilled to become part of it.
I asked if the whole rigmarole of flying wasn’t intimidating, and he said no. He liked it. I was impressed since I panic at least once a flight, thinking my boarding pass is lost or that I’ll miss my plane.
We talked about our dogs, the world in general, his trips with a choir to Europe, and he spoke of all the countries he’d like to visit. “Australia!” He said enthusiastically. “I’d love to visit Australia.” All in all, the hour and a half of waiting for our plane sped by and suddenly a loudspeaker voice interrupted us with a command to start boarding.
He said he was required to board first, so he picked up his white cane, and we said goodbye. But now I was feeling a bit protective of my new friend and began worrying. Would he be all right alone? I needn’t have fretted. Another traveler volunteered to help him on the plane and away they went. I found my seat and settled in for the flight, marveling at the young blind man’s bravery, his quiet and humble manner. Cheerfulness radiated from him, and I told myself I would do well to remember his optimistic outlook whenever I started feeling sorry for myself.
Later, in the Minneapolis airport, I caught my last glimpse of him as he held on to the arm of an airline employee and calmly and trustingly allowed him to bring him to his next flight.
With a jolt, I realized that whereas I’d briefly visited the world of the sightless, I could leave. My young blind friend could not.
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