The Little Old Man in the Window

I think about him often. He was just a little old man peering out of a third story window. I was in the middle of a busy New York City street. I happened to glance up and saw him. Our eyes met. He looked sad, almost as if he was searching the streets for a familiar face. What or who was he looking for? I waved at him. He timidly nodded back. I often wonder if he ever had any guests in his home. Did he have a family that checked up on him? Or was he all alone? Day after day. Does he watch the crowds go by below every day? Does he search the crowd for faces that he remembers from long ago? How can one be so lonely in the middle of the largest city? And then I wonder. Did he ever get to see the country? Pumpkins growing on the vines? Did he ever get to pick an apple from a tree? Did he ever get to taste milk straight from a cow, before it is put in the plastic containers? His eyes haunt me. Lonely eyes, sad eyes, eyes than have known pain. I ask God. Why...why do I think about the little man? Why is it that when I see an older person I think of the little old man in the window. I pray for the little old man. Should I be doing more for the little old man in the window?