One day, I called on Lucien for a visit, and he invited me in. His little apartment smelled sour and stuffy, and I felt a little weird at first, but from his friendliness and warmth, I soon decided that I was safe with him.

He showed me some black and white pictures in an old photo album. He cried as he told me about the death of his beloved son, a fighter pilot who had died in the second world war.

He sang part of a sentimental old song in French, and I wondered where his wife was. Maybe she had died too.

I heard Lucien’s gravelly French-Canadian voice crack, and watched tears roll down his old cheeks. I felt embarrassed, but then I also felt a lot of sympathy for him. He really was a harmless and sweet old man who wanted to share is memories with someone.