At our favorite coffee shop, Bill and I were talking about ways to use imagination to create characters whether in writing or acting. “For example,” he said, “look at this man coming up the stairs. What do you think his story could be?” My mind took off with possibilities and this post is my attempt to tell his story. The man with the pink cane is real, the story is entirely fiction.

The old man hobbled up the stairs, one hand on the rail the other grasping tightly to a pink cane. He was nicely dressed. A gray and white patterned shirt with a collar, gray slacks pressed and held up by a belt which gathered the slightly too large pants at the waist. His black shoes were well worn on the soles, particularly the right one, but not overly scuffed along their tops. The man hunched some as he walked. His face was lined with the effort it took to climb the 3 stairs. His white hair was thin around the sides and non-existent on the top. Still, he held himself upright as best he could, with the bearing of one who is accustomed to his independence.

The pink cane stood out in his ensemble of gray and black. It caught my attention and made me wonder how it had come into his possession. As it turned out his wife, Sarah, had given it to him. The two of them had met towards the end the war. Tom had come back injured; his right leg had taken shrapnel. He’d met Sarah at the hospital during his rehab. He’d never forget it. She had bounded into his room like a fresh wind. She had caught him off guard with her bubbly personality and demanding orders. “You’re going to walk today. Get out of the bed.” He’d wanted to hate her for pulling him out of his depressed mood and forcing him to get up and walk. He had wanted to remain in bed until he shrived up. He knew the images of war would drown him and eventually he’d succumb. What a relief it would be, but he hadn’t counted on Sarah.

She entered the room in a rush. Her strawberry blond hair bounced with each step she took. She checked his chart, her blue eyes scanning every word. He’d tried to look away, to not care that this beauty was giving him her full attention, but that had proved impossible. As she pulled him up to sit on the bedside, she cheered him on as if he had climbed Mt. Everest. What an overzealous nurse she had been. A cheerleader was the last thing he wanted. He’d rather curl up in a dark room until he disappeared.

However annoying her chipper disposition had been, he found himself enjoying the attention. For some reason he wanted to please her. Maybe it was to see her lovely smile that went all the way to her eyes. Maybe it was to gaze into those eyes. Maybe it was to hear her laughter which was music after the sounds of battle. If she laughed enough, could it drown out the bombs? There was only one way to find out, and he committed himself to find the answer to that question by making her laugh as much as possible.

He knew he was not her only patient but that only served to increase his motivation to be her best one. Soon they were walking the halls daily. His silly jokes gave way to serious conversations about life and death and war and peace. Her listening ears were a gift. His heart began to heal. It would take years, but Sarah was the beginning of his healing. Not only his leg, he’d gone from crutches to a walker to a cane while in her care; but also, his mind. The images and sounds of the war faded in her presence. He rarely spoke of those terrible days, but he knew when and if he did, she would listen with rapt attention. Just the knowledge of having a safe place was enough to begin the process of recovery. A process he never thought possible before meeting Sarah.

The day she had brought him the cane was stuck in his mind. She had acted as if a man with a pink cane was the most normal thing in the world. He had baulked at the idea. Refused to use it. She had demanded he do so. He was reluctant, but knew if he didn’t, she would leave to work with another patient. He took the ribbing from the other fellows. His anger dissipated considerably when he’d found out there were no canes available at the hospital, and Sarah had bought this one at an estate sale with her own money. The pink cane became his pride and joy then, because it showed him how much she cared about him.

He didn’t need the cane for long. He was released from the hospital with it, but Sarah had continued to work with him and before long he was walking unassisted down the street in front of his apartment. However, she continued to come by and walk with him each evening after her shift. He knew then that she would be in his life forever. Over the months, they’d fallen in love. He still couldn’t believe of all the guys, he was lucky enough to have her for his wife.

Now, here he was, alone, leg aching as much as it used to. No Sarah to cheer him up this time. He’d lost her years ago to cancer. But what a marvelous life it had been. He’d not trade it for the world. Getting old alone was not what he wanted, but here he was. When his arthritis became too much for him to walk, he had fished out that old pink cane from the attic. Sarah had thought him mad to keep it. She’d said he could always buy a better nicer cane if he ever needed one again…and it wouldn’t be pink! He’d laughed and when he said pink was his favorite color the comment brought tears to her eyes. Oh, how he missed those eyes.

At the top of the steps, the painful lines on his face softened. He leaned on the cane, as if Sarah was still right by his side. He walked into the familiar building and shuffled down the hallway to the nurses’ station. He could almost see Sarah there, a wisp of a memory floating through his mind as he reached for his weekly list of room numbers. The story of the pink cane was a favorite of the patients he visited each week. It never ceased to bring a smile from someone in need of being pulled out of their own darkness. Sarah was still giving hope to soldiers, even now.