The Greatest Compliment

A Deli, a Sandwich, and a Father's Sweetness

His stepmother sat in the car, fully hooked on oxygen, emaciated in body, but tireless in spirit. The chemo, the dialysis, the pneumonia, the broken bones, even the resuscitation from death had all taken their toll. His dad was at home, a few years short of becoming a centenarian. Regular exercise, a habit of taking supplements since youth, and a childlike wonder had served him well, even though his reserves of optimism were being tested as a caregiver for an often irascible woman 13 years his junior.

When he visited, the youngest son alternated between dialysis drop-offs, doctors’ appointments, ER visits, and yard work. Their irreverent spirits and lust to live enabled lunches and coffee with friends. His favorite moment was shooting the breeze over coffee with his dad.

The youngest son lived out of town like his older brothers, but he came down as often as he could.

The deli was one of their favorite stops, but the people behind the counter did not know the youngest son.

The queue was short. The somber patron before him seemed to be a successful middle-aged man sporting a trendy watch—perhaps too trendy and successful to be kind. He impatiently shook his head and tapped his fingers on the cashier’s counter. The cashier met his brusqueness with a gentle smile that crested beneath her soft almond eyes.

She then turned to the youngest son.

“May I help you?”

Eager to share a bit of human kindness, he greeted her, smiled, and placed his order.

“You remind me of your father,” she remarked.

“It’s the way you talk and move. You are sweet like him.”

He stared into her brown eyes, totally at a loss for words.

She handed him his sandwich.

“Roasted turkey, tomato, mayonnaise on rye. A small unsweetened iced tea.”

He looked at her with tears welling in his eyes.

“That’s the greatest compliment anyone has ever given me,” he said, his lips trembling.

A story by Pemba Umoja