"Between you, me and these walls..."

Around 5 o'clock in the evening, or whenever dinner is all cleared away, I make my way down to the administration offices to pick up the residence mail. By now I know the usuals: Ruth who gets mail from every Jewish organization imaginable, Joan and her catalogs, Marguerite and the phone bill, and random cards or junk mail thrown in to other people who I usually know.
But today I came across a name I did not know. I made my way over to the residents list and found his room number. The door was ajar as I walked up so I knocked.
"Melvin?"
"Yes, come in."
As I opened the door I saw him reaching over his bed to turn down the radio.
"I have some mail for you!"
"Oh geez, I was expecting a bill," he says as he feels the thickness of the envelope, "but not like this." He smiles and I cordially grin.
I notice him shaking and I am immediately running down the list of potential causes. But then I notice all the pictures.
A lot of residents have pictures. Some of family, some of animals, some of creepy clowns. But Melvin had pictures of Africa. And a few of an African woman. It caught my attention but I didn't want to pry.
As I turned to leave more picture lined the back wall and I couldn't help but to stop and gawk. Instinctively, I turned around.
"These pictures are absolutely beautiful!"
"Thank you, that woman is my wife," he said as he nodded to the profile on the wall.
It was a confident African woman's profile. Headscarf, earrings and afro-ed hair.
"She is stunning."
"I lost her last March."
The sorrow hit immediately. I didn't know the woman in the picture and all I knew of her husband was that he got mail from ING, but it didn't seem to matter. Compassion overwhelmed me.
He proceed to share his story of how they met in Cameroon, how he's been there 11 times and how he has over 100 nieces and nephews. The love for his family and the land was evident on his face, so I asked him if he thought he would be able to get there again.
He replied, "My wife's grave is there so, health permitting, I want to go at least one more time. But between you, me and these walls...I want to take my dying breath there and join my wife."

There wasn't much I could say after that. What can you say? We ended our conversation with the usual "good nights" and I walked out to continue my mail route. But replayed that last bit again and again, and then I realized why it was so profound for me.

Because I had finally met someone who understands my sentiment.