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As we stood, two strangers in line together, the old man shared reminiscently how he had been married for over fifty years, and that two years ago, his wife passed away. He reached his hand into his left shirt pocket, and gently pulled out her picture. The edges were worn. The colors were faded. The photo was shaped to the curve of his chest. As his eyes teared up, he told me he carries that picture of her, next to his heart, every day.
Moved by his words and emotion, I placed my hand on his back as if we were friends, and told the man how lucky he was, as my eyes slightly began to tear up too. We chatted a few moments longer, as I proceeded to ask him if he had any children. He did, two sons - 43 and 46. One works for the Brewers, the other the Secret Service. Again, I admired the old man for having two accomplished sons, and he thanked me for asking about them.
Quickly, it was my turn to order, and when I went to turn back around, he was gone, like a ghost in the wind. I never got his name. But he left a lasting impression. One of hope and inspiration. In a world of expensive weddings and quick divorces, of cynicism and skeptics, of philanderers and non-commiters, a little old man in a sandwich shop, with a lifetime of love behind him, reminded me that true love does exist. It exists. It exists endlessly, and it knows no bounds.