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I was walking down the hall one day last year. I was walking fast, as I always do. At work when I have to go somewhere I am always in a hurry. I work in a hospital.

There was an old woman in the hall, a patient. She was moving slowly, using her walker for support. It was plain to see that every step was an effort of will over weariness. She was tiny; the top of her white-haired head didn't stand as far from the ground as my chest.

I passed her on the right, slowing a little and giving her a wide berth and an "excuse me" as I entered her field of view, both to show respect to the elderly, and to avoid startling her and perhaps causing a mishap.

As I accelerated away from her, I heard her say: "I wish I could keep up with you!"

I stopped dead in my tracks. I turned around and walked slowly back to her. She was so small and frail! I had to go to one knee just to look her straight in the eyes. I placed my right hand gently on her little hand as it gripped the walker. Her skin felt as fragile as tissue paper. Her face was so very thin, thin and as pale as a full moon in winter.
"When did you first learn to walk?" I asked her.

Her face showed a bit of puzzlement at what must have seemed to her to be a very odd question. Then she smiled a tiny smile and replied:
"Nineteen-twenty-five" she said in a clear, strong voice.

"Then I would say that I will have to walk very fast, indeed, for the next 36 years to even catch up to you."

Her back straightened just a little and she smiled brightly. A tiny tear appeared in the corner of her left eye. I put my arm around her shoulders and gave her a gentle, one-armed hug, straightened up, and turned away to resume my rapid pace towards the emergency room.

I never saw her again.

Today I read in the paper that I never will.

God grant that I catch up to her one day.

The generations of man pass, and pass, as will the world and the stars in their courses.
The scales of Heaven register naught but what we pass on without payment asked or given.