Every day was a struggle for John Peterson. Filled with bitterness and self-pity, John lived a life that was hardly a life at all. He remained in his house day after day, isolating himself, going out only for food and other such necessities. The town folk visited him for the first couple years after the accident, bringing baskets of fruit and good-natured smiles, but his violent rages brought an end to such ideas. Eventually they all gave up on him, deciding that he was destined to be a ghost to the Town Square and just a memory to the pub. Never opening up to anyone, his sufferings were never eased. For seven years he lived like that. Horrible feelings of pain and bitterness ate away at his heart for far too long a time.

He lived alone in Boston. With the belief that living a “normal” life to be useless, his home was quite ill kept. Items remained covered in a seven-year layer of dust, while other things were strewn about the floor, victims of his bursts of explosive furies. Not caring for variety, he ate simple meals: hot cereal for breakfast, for dinner a hard boiled egg and custard, and for supper a bowl of soup, never tasting anything that met his tongue. He often stared into the abyss, eating for survival and habit’s sake only. He didn’t care about eating, or even living. He found no value in anything.

One wonders how John ended up in this state of mind. A state of mind that is often impossible to return from. The one of little caring and overwhelming grief. Where life and those in it are worthless. No one is quite sure what drives the mind to this point, but John has experienced it. For him it was a life-altering moment in which he lost something, or, someone. Someone who was not just close to his heart, but whom he had given his heart. When John lost her, he lost perspective in its entirety. He seemed to forget all the wonderful memories of their time spent together and his mind was consumed with the painful thoughts of her death. She was ripped out of his life and it truly felt as if someone ripped his heart out.

As April approached, he made his way to his dusty, cramped kitchen to realize he was out of soup and reluctantly went to pull on his coat. Muttering about the nippy cold air, he slipped out his backdoor and crept down the alleys into the shadows. He didn’t want to see anyone, meet anyone, and most certainly didn’t want to talk to anyone. The neighbors were friendly, full of the hope that had been misunderstood and abhorred by him for many years. After coming close to the little store on the corner, he found an orphan of about nine years of age. The emaciated thing was like many of the orphans wandering the streets that night. Nothing but skin and bones with lifeless eyes, not knowing how it was to be loved or cared for. John paid him to go buy him some soup. He’d rather deal with the orphans on the street than deal with the faces, the questions, and the gossip he would find inside.

The small child did as he was asked. He disappeared into the store and reappeared a few minutes later, carrying as many cans of soup as the bag could hold. He didn’t look like he could carry it for much longer. It wasn’t very heavy. Any healthy boy could have toted it around town half a dozen times, but the boy was quite weak from hunger and the biting cold seemed to steal away any strength left in his feeble body. His staggering walk was worsening by each step. John took the bag from him, paid him, and began to slowly walk home. Not surprisingly, the orphan began to follow him. John cursed at him and told him to go away, but the orphan was determined to accompany him. John did not want to yell or cause a scene, so he simply let the little boy follow behind.

As he got home, he opened the door, slipped in, and turned to shut the door. The orphan made no noise of complaint. John shut the door and began to cook his soup. The little child curled up in a ball on the doormat, thankful for the heat coming through the crack of the doorframe. John wanted him to leave. He did not want to look into anyone’s face, only into hers, and she was gone. Suddenly, a surprisingly large gust of wind battered the door and it opened with a bang. The exposed child looked up fearing John would be angry and knowing no one would miss an orphan on a cold winter night. John looked up and compulsion took over. He never decided what compelled him to do it. If it was his wife, the look in the child’s eyes as he followed him home, or his desire to just send him on his way peacefully. Whatever the reason, he allowed the child inside. He silently shared his meal of soup with him. The child hungrily gulped down the soup, sitting as close to the stove as possible without being in it.

After the meal was done, the little boy slowly walked over to the man, placing his bony hand on John’s shoulder. He said nothing, but as the man looked into the lifeless eyes of the little child, he thought he saw something, a spark… a spark of life. It was in that spark that flashed the zest for life his wife once had.

The man whispers “Thank you”, his first kind words in over seven years.

While the child did not understand these words, John shared gratitude for showing that there is still some life in this world, if you just nurture it a bit. He welcomed this boy to live with him. After the boy became healthy again, he was quite lively and slowly, but surely, John began to heal. The little boy warmed the house with his spirited disposition and eventually warmed John’s cold life into something worth living again.

The state of mind John was once in is almost impossible to leave, but love endures and it never fails. The power of a touch from another human being or the longing for our true character and spirit to show is immeasurable and will never be fully comprehended in this life.