Grief overcame me on Friday and I sat in the coffee shop area of the public library sobbing.  My father-in-law died on Wednesday and that, combined with other events in my life, weighed so heavily on me that I struggled to rise above the churn of pain within me.  I railed against life, not understanding, not accepting, indulging in the ultimate complaint:  why is this all happening to me?  What have I done to deserve all of this pain?

A man came towards my table and pulled a chair slightly away, settling himself into it.  This occurs from time to time in that place.  The coffee kiosk has a bar but the library also has provided four tables in its lobby.  Coffee-drinkers, mothers with children, cell-phone users, all group at these tables and often share the meager space.

I paid the man little attention, at first.  I noticed he had two suitcases and a flip-phone; I saw that he wore three jackets.  My brain said: Homeless guy, drug dealer or both.  I contemplated offering to buy him a coffee; but then my phone rang and I started a long conversation with someone from one of my doctor’s offices.  Towards the end of the call, I got a little teary and felt the man react:  His face tensed a bit and he leaned forward.  His lips curved into a smile and he turned his head slightly sideways.

After that call, I got another, from a different doctor’s office.  The nurse got the doctor himself and we discussed the next step in my care:  Referral to a specialist who might be able to solve the puzzle of the disconnect between my brain and my eyes.  We spoke about my impending trip to Stanford Medical for yet another evaluation by yet another specialist.  I thought to myself:  Thank God for Health Insurance.  Otherwise, I might just decide to let this damned virus claim me.

After those calls, I answered e-mail between spurts of crying.  None of the folks passing through the lobby to the library or beyond into the office building paid any heed to the sight of a thin woman, sitting with a homeless guy, crying and typing on her laptop.  Perhaps they were New Yorkers, the lot of them, and hard to shock.

The man sat in the chair by my table for three hours.  He never moved beyond occasionally taking out his phone and making a short call, whispering in the barest of voices. I heard nothing of what he said.  As for myself, eventually I recalled a time when my father-in-law and I had gone to the Mixx across the parking lot for lunch, then into the library for what he called “a real cup of coffee”.  We’d sat nearer the window than the table I occupied on Friday.  This lunch occurred a year ago, after my mother-in-law’s death; before my own life spiraled out of control; when my father-in-law strained under the new loss of his beloved Joanna and I found myself yearning to help him find peace.

I am not sure that he ever did; and now he, too, is gone; but I feel certain he is back with his Joanna and the grief now rests on us.

About five o’clock on Friday, I decided I needed to get out of the library.  I packed everything, and glanced over at the man.  I meant to speak but could not think of anything to say.  Homeless guy, drug dealer, or just another library patron:  I did not know.  But somehow, his presence had comforted me.  Though I would find myself dissolving again, not so very later; still, in that moment, exchanging glances with a man whom I did not know and would never again see, I found a little peace of my own.