I had returned the grocery cart to the store after I had put the bags into my Mini Countryman, when I spotted an elderly man leaving his silver Hummer, heading toward me. The H3 looked exactly like the one I once owned. I knew it was an older model, and it had to be, as I knew GM had discontinued making those several years ago.

I watched as the senior closed the door, and began walking, more like lumbering, toward me with his head down. He wasn’t looking at his phone; he was watching his steps. As he approached, I said to him with great delight, “I used to own an H3.” He looked up at me, surprised, and then stopped about a foot away. “I loved that car.” I told him the H3 was gorgeous, asked what year it was. He paused to think and then said 2004. 80,000 miles.

Thus began a chat that changed his world. I didn’t know that in that precise moment, but I was certain of it after we parted. Here’s some of what I learned.

He was 80, though to me he looked no more than maybe early 70s. The H3 was his wife’s car, but she doesn’t drive anymore as she had surgery and is now confined to a wheel chair. She lives in daily pain due to, he then hesitated to find the word, got part of it out, when I finished it. Osteoporosis. “Yes,” and then added, “it eats you up.”

He had his own surgery last year, then had a motorcycle accident because “they had done something to the road,” that left him with a brain injury and, motioning to his black boots, not the most stable balance. Makes it frustratingly hard for him to put words together, to remember things. Several times more he stalled, apologized for the gaps, struggling to spew forth his reality.

A guy passed by us, and as he did, he wiggled/shook the man’s shoulder warmly, but didn’t stick around to be introduced. I didn’t know the guy, so I playfully said to him as he walked away, “We’re talking cars.” I didn’t want the guy to get the wrong idea and think his neighbor was out flirting about on such a gorgeous summerlike day. The 80-year-old was quite fit, crisply dressed in jeans. He sported a diamond in his left ear. He looked like he had been living well, despite the challenges, and could probably, in my estimation still be an effective flirt if he wanted to be.

He was proud that he had never had a motorcycle accident the entire length of his riding days, up until last year that is. I learned his wife had her own motorcycle crash after two beers and gave up riding after that, so he got a sidecar for her, but everyone else in his family, the men, made it to 80 before they stopped riding. He said this exuberantly, such a point of family pride. And yet, with even greater joy he said he had told them he wanted to make it to 81. Meaning, ride until 81.

He told me he always wore leathers, that he had repaired the damage to the bike caused from his fall down the side of the hill, where he had laid for an hour until the first responders arrived. I think he could see my expression change, and that I was about to say something, but before I could he said he’s not sure what to do, what he’ll do. He knows that eventually he will have to sell it or give it away.

It was about then that words started coming out of my mouth that were meant for his heart. My tone changes when this happens, taking on an intensity, that was sure to stop anyone who might walk by us, who didn’t know we were strangers.

I told him that I know it is very hard to let things go, that as we age, we have to bless and release a lot of things. That it is not an easy thing to do. But, I said, you have a wife that needs you. I told him she has been worried sick that you are going to say to her one of these lovely days, me then pointing to the blue sky, that you are going out for a ride.

“You cannot do that to her. You cannot add to her suffering and pain, with this worry that you are going to get on that bike. You cannot. You cannot. You have to go back and tell her today you are letting the bike go. Today.”

He hadn’t interrupted me. He listened as if his life depended on it. He let me speak the truth he was meant to hear that day, before he softly said, “You are right.” I smiled as I nodded, saying it was time to bless and release. He told me he was going to cry, and then started, as I tried to high five him with my right hand to lighten the mood. Instead, he took my hand in both of his and pulled them toward his chest. His grip was strong. I felt serious callouses. He looked straight at me. With his voice faltering, I heard “Thank you Lady,” and that God had sent me. He softly thanked me again, the emotion lowering his head. Our hands released as I let him walk away to complete his grocery errand.

Small talk with a stranger about the love of an H3 turned into a dance of healing grace. Isn’t that miraculous?

Giselle was a journalist with The Denver Post and is the author of “We are Here for a Purpose: HOW TO FIND YOURS” and the novel “Just Dance the Steps.” Her new romantacy “WYNTER’S DREAM” is now available.  Email Giselle with your question at [email protected]  To read more columns go to  www.gisellemassi.com