Emotion

"That's him," the mother of the young man walking toward me on rue de la Republique said.

He was nearly twenty, a good six feet. I'd not seen him for almost a decade.

The first time I saw, or rather heard him, I looked out the window of my nest. He was in full

throws of a tantrum and was riding in a cart pulled by a bike. My immediate thought, which I still regret was--why can't his mother control him? My conclusion was so wrong.

Something went wrong at his birth.

Over the next few summers, I watched him develop. His walking improved. They told me his speech improved, although I do not understand Danish.

One night we were at a café in the square. He picked up a bike and road, something we thought impossible. Tears were plentiful.

Over the few summers when the family installed themselves in the house across the street, his bedroom looked into my nest. Each night we would wave good night. And each morning we would start the day with a wave.

After a few years, he and his mother stopped coming, but I followed his progress thru his grandparents who made annual treks to Argelès.

This year, everyone is here. His grandfather, aunt and mother all said he was looking forward to seeing me. I was looking forward to seeing him.

As he walked down the street, I rushed into a hug.

He understands some of my English although we need translations. He remembers our waves and what we shared.

He has business cards for his repair business. He worked for over five years, collecting bottles for money, selling Christmas trees, carrying luggage and making repairs to buy a boat. I wonder if any American child would work so hard for a goal.

The boat is beautiful and I saw where he sails her on his mom's telephone. The photo of the boat is on his phone.

We meet for coffee. We will meet again while this beautiful man is here for chats, coffee and hugs.

It is so seldom, I've met someone who has gone beyond their potential to become such a wonderful man.