William's sapphire eyes

Benched?, April 2008

William has the eyes of a 20 year-old. Laurence Olivier handsome.

60 years ago, his front teeth were knocked out. A puck deflected off a goalie's wide blade and careened arrow straight for his teeth. It was like he knocked them out himself. That was the first story he told me.

His eyes are blue as a mountain lake fed by a receding glacier that reveals earth's eternal bones. Clearly, they see and see. They remember.

10 years ago, his wife died. "She used to make me do stuff whether I wanted to or not," he says, a few words at-a-time. Since she left, his daughter tells me, all he does is sit in his chair and watch TV, heavy oil down a clogged drain.

Then he had his stroke. He doesn't want to be here, alive that is, but his body resists. An oak tree with 86 rings and roots that reach to an underground artery of live-giving water doesn't give up easy. He still has a few stories to tell.

Wednesday, we were working on his dysarthric speech. My assistant had rustled up a page of social phrases. "Thank you very much. I'm happy to see you. Where is the washroom?" They were unusually banal when listed like that. By the time we got to the 15th phrase they crossed the line into funny. Bill read them fluently, voice stronger than before, and with good humour. They were so absurd he started to have fun. Smiling, chuckling, sapphire eyes illuminated from within by a growing blue flame.

Next week, I'm going to see if he has more stories to tell. I'll start by asking him about his wife.

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