Our Neighbor, George

There is an elderly man living one door down from the temporary apartment we've had in Orizaba, though he spends much of each day outdoors, seated in a plastic chair, watching the townsfolk go by. He is a short man--maybe five-feet tall--although that may be complicated by the sway he appears to have in his right hip, so that his body is slightly S-shaped. His name is George. He is as brown as a nut, except where his eyes have begun to cloud, which makes me imagine that he is slowly setting the world to "fade." And he is as friendly as anyone I've ever known. Although he has a speech impediment--a slur, possibly the result of a stroke--his volume is good, and his greetings always hardy. Of course, combine his speech impediment with our mutual language impediments, and we barely get past, "Hi, how are you?" And "very well, thank you." But we always have a kiss on the cheek, or the hand in his case, and I receive an extra pat on the shoulder when we part. Something makes me think he is a retired priest, living just half a block from his former church, San Juan de Dios. (Come to think of it, that cathedral may have parallel marks of age.) He has been a light for me, here in Orizaba. Where so many things feel a bit strange, his vigil at the porch rail is constant, and his smile and words, warm. One day I had an "aha" moment, realizing who he reminds me of most: Yoda!