A Rich Life.

I have a healthy collection of birthday signs from a little old man named Rich whom I worked with for 7 years at my last job. They were modest signs, drawn up on Bristol board with a plethora of markers, and those of us with Autumn birthdays often got signs adorned with dried leaves as Rich experimented with mixed media. No one, save for a select few who'd been there a reasonable amount of time themselves, knew how long the elderly artist had been with the company. Twenty years? Thirty? More? As my second job out of college and first in a large office, I simply had the impression that he'd always been there, and would be there long after I was gone. No one's birthday would ever go unrecognized.

Rich used to work in a cubicle at the end of the row next to my own. Most people's cubicles felt like work environments, gray walls covered with photos of family or art and metal shelves with figurines to personalize the area. It was all like a coat of thin paint, while Rich's cubicle seemed like someone's den, warm low lights and a small tree on which perched several fake birds. He toiled away silently in this peaceful den, up until he was moved to a smaller office in another section of the building. He wasn't seen as often, but everyone knew he was there to mount a printout on poster board, or simply flash his warm, vibrant smile in the hall. There was a twinkle in his eyes, a hint of a mischievous youth. Rey once shared an anecdote about Rich using an old-timey word like “statuesque” to describe a young beauty, Jennifer Garner if my memory is correct.

The man in the coffin barely resembled our beloved friend. From a distance, I sort of recognized distinguishing features, but as I knelt before the body to pray, I could see the differences, the thin neck and jawline, the taut skin, and even the hair swooshed back in a manner Rich never wore his hair. The cancer, which not even his wife knew about until it claimed his life a week ago, had left but a husk. Alongside the coffin, large studio quality prints provided by Rich's former coworkers showcased that life and smile we knew so well.

There were only two family members present at the wake, nephews from overseas. Rich had no children, and his wife was not well enough to attend the evening services. But the room was anything but empty, packed with friends and former coworkers. It was a bittersweet reunion, with plenty of exchanges of, “Great to see you! Wish it was under better circumstances...” In the last few days I've learned a few things about this quiet man, originally from Colorado. It's strange how the nicest people I meet are often not from New York. Rich fought in World War II, and was married for over 50 years. He turned 85 a month ago, and I do not doubt that he’d still be listening to quiet jazz tunes in his office den had he not been caught up in layoffs that interrupted many of our careers two years ago. He might have looked like a quiet little old man, but there was an enormous strength in there. This was a man who fought in a war, who worked his whole life, well beyond the age most of us retire. This man swore his doctors to secrecy to spare both his wife and his friends the pain of the battle he was facing. This was an admirable man.

Sentimental packrat that I am, I still have those birthday signs, even the ones with the leaves, though most have withered to dust. A few other people at the wake had saved theirs as well. It was a small gesture, but sometimes the smallest notice or acknowledgment can mean so much. He touched hundreds of lives, and the shared loss brought people together in one room that might never have gathered again otherwise. In the end, that's the greatest legacy and wealth of all, to care, to be loved, and to be remembered fondly.