The sun is shining in Austin, Texas. The hotel dining room is full of young people for breakfast. They are all tourists. I can tell this because they are wearing T-shirts that say things like: “Austin is Special.”
There is one young woman in the dining room, however, who stands out from the crowd.
She is maybe early 20s. She is wearing an oxygen cannula attached to a tube coming from a fanny pack. She is sitting alone at a table, eating breakfast by herself.
The young people in the dining area surround her, but I don’t think she is one of them. She sits on the periphery, engaged only in her simple but serene act of eating.
Meantime, her contemporaries play on their phones, clutching their devices tightly, hunched at the necks, faces lit with the phosphorous blue analgesic glow of their personal handheld opiate delivery apparatus. Nobody makes a sound.
But the girl is dining in a kind of tech-free reverie. She wears a half smile on her face. As though she doesn’t want to miss one moment of this beautiful morning.
She looks out the window at Austin. A warmth emanates from her. It’s not a blinding glow, like a bonfire. But a Chinese lantern-like light, warm and soft.
I notice the purple track marks on her pale forearms. There are white bandages on her legs. She is slight. So small a breeze might knock her over. Her hair is midnight, pulled into a ponytail. I see a scar on her neck from where a PICC line once had a place in her life.
“Are you having a good morning?” I ask.
“I am,” she says with a smile.
She seems out of breath when she speaks. Like maybe there is some congestion in her chest. “How about you?”
“Ditto,” I say.
Another smile.
She goes back to eating.
The others in the lobby don’t even seem to notice this exceptional child. They don’t notice the luminosity around her.
And I can’t help but notice how sullen the average American teen seems by comparison.
I’m looking at a crowd of young people, in this lobby, all together, seated side-by-side, with the sap of youth flowing through their blood. They are all attractive. They are all the same age. They are all so healthy. And yet they are not even talking to each other. They are merely thumbing away.
And I’m wondering how much of my own life I often miss because I’m busy looking at my phone.
“Are you from Texas?” I ask the young woman.
She shakes her head. “No, Michigan.”
“Long way from home,” I say.
Another smile. “Always wanted to see Austin. It was only two hours west from the hospital, so my dad brought me to visit.” Then she adds, “He’s still sleeping.”
She offers no more information. After all, it’s none of my business.
Her breakfast is soon finished. She rises. She tosses her empties into the garbage. She walks with a limp. Even so, gracefully she moves toward wherever her beautiful life is taking her next.
As she walks past the young people on their phones, she smiles at each one. She says, “Good morning” to all fortunate enough to meet her eyes.
But nobody seems to hear her. They hardly glance away from their screens.
As she walks away, I can see the back of her T-shirt. The shirt reads:“God is bigger than my cancer.”
Austin really is special.