The computer consumes my attention and I do not look up for a few minutes, forgetting that the biggest part of my job is to greet people with a smile before burying them in a mountain of paperwork they must conquer before seeing the doctor. I hear a small rustle and look up. His wrinkles multiply as the corners of his mouth turn up. I apologize and frantically click at the computer, trying to find the right screen. I begin the dance; the man and his wife know their steps well. I ask; they answer. “Yes, we live there. That’s our number.” Ah, we can end early; their insurance cards have already been added to the computer. The man still reaches for his wallet, either deaf (I assume he did not hear my cue to skip a step) or unwilling to deviate from the well-known choreography. All right I can do the whole routine. I stomp on the feet of my impatience.
It is not his insurance cards that appear from the creases of his faded brown billfold. A picture, edges worn, emerges from the leather pocket. The church backdrop gives more insight into the color of the smiling girl’s dress than the ink’s sepia hue. Her eyes match those of the woman before me. “That picture was taken 60 year ago.” His face radiates the same happiness and love as the younger version’s captured on the paper, but his voice adds an edge of pride that can’t be caught by film. “Happy Anniversary.” I add a line to my usual song as I hand them their paperwork. He gently returns his memory to his pocket and takes his wife’s hand. “I should write this moment down” flits through my mind before the computer claims my attention once more.
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