I can see him from the living room almost every morning and he has become a part of my life. His back was a little hunched, and one foot seemed to be dragging along, a twisted foot that touched the ground more than the sole. I guess he was in his eighties and wore only a flannel shirt. One dewy morning, I saw the hot breath he exhaled, and I wondered if he felt cold.

One morning, while working in the garden, I saw the old man laughing and messing up the hair of a passing child.

"If I don't act now, I'm afraid I won't have a chance." I decided, so I gathered up my courage and walked over to introduce myself.

His pale blue eyes showed vigor, and a smile appeared on his face. This time for me. "My wife and I are from Switzerland, and we first went to Canada and then to the United States, which was many years ago," he told me. "We worked hard until we saved enough money to buy a farm. My English If it's not good, I secretly find some children's books to read until I learn it." He said with a smile. He looked at the child outside the barbed wire, his face became solemn. "We have no children."

I meditated on his words that day, and was deeply moved by his lonely voice. I thought of the few relatives and friends left in his hometown, who were not only separated by geography, but also by different worlds and eras. "My wife is not well," he replied.

I want to help him as soon as possible and make friends with him, but it's a bit presumptuous to take the initiative, it's better to be polite. I pointed to my house and said, "You're welcome to drop by for a cup of coffee any time you walk."

I haven't seen him since then, but I often think of him. Is he unwell enough that it is inconvenient to go out? Has his wife's health suddenly deteriorated? I don't even know his name or where he lives, and I'm ashamed of my inappropriate words and actions. This way of making friends is really inappropriate.

I saw him again a few months later.

One day I went out to run errands, and I met him on a train that was a fifteen-hour walk away from home, and saw the familiar swaying and swaying. He walked slowly, but his back was bent, one of his feet was twisted so that the heel was out of the shoe, his pale face was thinner than I remembered, but his eyes were still shining. He smiled as I reintroduced myself. I just knew his name was Paul.

'Oh it's not as far as I used to go,' he explained, 'oh my wife, I can't be away from her for long, she's out of her mind.' Forget things." He pointed to a green and white water-built house across the street and said, "Would you like to go in and see my paintings."

"I was about to pick up the car from the garage," I said regretfully, "and I'd be happy to visit some other day."

"Then can you come tonight?" he said hopefully.

"Call, okay, I'll come tonight." I said.

Paul stood expectantly in front of the window, the smell emanating from the damp machine leaves in the cold, gloomy evening air. When the door opened, he was neatly dressed to greet me.

His wife, lanky and fragile, came out of the kitchen, with white hair, curled into a small piece and placed in the back. "Come in, come in," she greeted, with the gentle smile of a man of her time, and held out a soft hand that had been through the vicissitudes of life.

"This is my wife Xiangde. We have been married for 56 years." He stood up and said.

I visited Paul's pen drawings that night, and we looked at them from room to room, either on modest easels or in drawers. He painted famous people, landscapes, and other things that intrigued him, and each painting had a story.

But the most impressive and brutal fact is that people as talented as him were ignored in their time, "you can't make a living on this," his father once told him, "if you keep painting, you will Nothing will happen."

His mother passed away when he was nine years old, and he still remembers how whenever his mother found him drawing with a pen and paper, she slapped him on the head with a stick and said, "Do something useful, don't waste your time."

Byrd went into the kitchen, looking for something to entertain the guests. "I wish I could get you some biscuits, but I can't cook like I used to."

"I can't eat, I just had dinner." I said.

Their dinner is delivered by the relief center three days a week.

"We can't eat that much, we always save some for tomorrow, except on Monday we try to cook it ourselves."

They invited me to stay a little longer, we sat down and talked, the room was full of human dignity.

The next Monday, Paul came out to answer the door, his eyes on the tray in my hand. He liked me to see them, but the woodcutter's fretful look told me that he was angry at the time. Bai De was pale and embarrassed, and hurriedly took care of himself.

"We're not feeling well today. I have a problem with my mind, so I can't remember well." She raised her hands up, "I don't understand either... Maybe I'm too old!

They took me into the kitchen and the canned food was scattered over the stove.

Paul's hands were shaking as he pointed out to me the hole he made in his shirt while he was cooking.

The original anger stopped because of my visit, but the damage had already been done. He put his hand on his forehead and sighed, trying to regain his calm. "Sometimes she just pisses me off," he said, setting the table for the lunch I brought.

Byrd is still restless, and my heart aches trying to find the little spoon she no longer needs.

The frailty and irritability of old age. Frustration, limitations and fears had brought them both too much embarrassment that morning. Feeling their need, I reached out to hold Burd's trembling hand.

"Shall we sit down and pray?" I said.

"Sniff," Bird said, "we need it."

Paul sat down on a chair by the sofa and joined in prayer.

After I finished praying for them, I picked up my head. The expressions of gratitude and green solution appeared on their faces, the tense atmosphere had disappeared, I hugged the two of them, and was delighted by the hugs they gave back.

"You're so kind to us," Paul said, as he walked into the dining room, and Shannon's wife pulled out a chair.

No, I think, God is just too good for me. He allowed me to share this moment when he touched two people he loved so much, and how blessed I was in the process. I would love to be their friend, and he made my wish come true.