He was doing his best to brush litter into a corner outside the bus station but the breeze was getting the better of him. Seeing me, his face brightened as he staggered forward to gabble a greeting that made no sense; a man of fifty, bent and lame.
I had known him in his thirties when he opened a white goods emporium twenty miles south of here in the county town, on Main Street then, three years ago he vanished after the shutters on the premises went up for good and soon after, he split with his wife. Most of all I remembered his light brown voice at parish concerts doing sentimental numbers like Macushla, as good if not better than McCormick or Patterson, and in a way that would take the heart out of you when it came to the lyric, Your red lips are saying that death is a dream.
Shaking my head and smiling, I put out my hand to shake his but he read my expression as puzzled, reached into his pocket with his good arm, fished out a plastic card and placed it in my palm. It bore his name, an organisation and a paragraph that began, “This man is a stroke victim….”