Life's (unwanted) Timely Lessons

All I wanted to do was rest my weary head. He wouldn’t have any of that. He got on the train, searched up and down the aisle, and found the only available seat—opposite mine. He sat, arranged himself, and spoke to me. I politely told him I didn’t speak German and tried to go back to my book and solitude. Eventually he concludes I’m an American and starts chattering away in his broken yet beautiful English about how he’s going to a funeral for a dear friend. So I gave in.
He bought me a coffee and told me about his studies in medicine and then recounted his experience as a prisoner of war in WWII and his grand escape from the internment camp. I almost felt like I was right there with him as he sneaked over the border and finally returned home to Frankfurt where he saw his parents again for the first time.
He told me about how he has spent the latter part of his life following his second passion: music. He told me in elaborate detail about a concert he held with his grandson the weekend before, humming and singing bits of each song to help me get a better feel for the flow of the evening’s events. He even showed me a requiem he has written and another that he was in the middle of creating.
After a while, he pointed to his leg with his cane and told me they had no explanation for why it didn’t work any longer. “The body,” he said with a sly grin, “is 87, the leg 97, but the mind, the mind is 77… sometimes, I think, 67. And that’s the important part.” Here he is telling me these fantastic life stories, full of ups and downs—and he gives me the most profound and yet simplest words to live by: “You have to be happy with what you have, you know?” Such a tiny little pearl of wisdom, and yet exactly what I needed to hear.
He then realizes his stop is quickly approaching. As he gathers his things, he shakes my hands, tells me good luck, and says, “As long as you have music, you can never be sad.” Then he was gone, just as suddenly as he appeared.
And I wanted to read my book.