In January 2000, 90-year-old Wally was in critical condition. Several of us who were devoted to Wally and his life partner, Juanita, took shifts in the hospital room while awaiting word from medical personnel. After a few days, my energy had drained down into the tiled floors, up into the fluorescent lights, and into the soundtrack of carts being pushed down antiseptic hallways.

One afternoon, while Wally slept, I ambled down the hall to a solarium. The natural light — even without access to fresh air — revived me a bit. I pondered the concept of life without Wally, whom I’d met years before, weeks after I lost my father. At a time when I still needed parenting — who among us truly grows up by age 21? — Wally offered deep wisdom, humor, and gentle challenges. He soon became my favorite person.

I heard someone enter the solarium. “It’s lovely to see the sky, isn’t it?” I turned and found a smiling older man with shining eyes. He exuded warmth. He continued: “One can almost forget the sky exists, sitting there by the bed …” With two short phrases, the man let me know that I wasn’t alone with my sadness.

“Yes,” I said. “Seeing the sky feels surreal after a few hours.” I stood to face him, and he took my right hand in his. “I’m Johnny,” he said. “Johnny Polo.” A few inches shorter than I, he reached up to touch my hair, a gesture that ordinarily would have seemed inappropriate from someone I didn’t know. His smile and bright eyes, however, put me at ease.

“Oh my,” he exclaimed, “such beautiful hair!”

My unruly locks had been a source of frustration throughout my life; I grew up envying people with normal hair. Yet this stranger beheld my hair with delight, and I laughed. “My … hair?” He began laughing, too. “Oh, goodness, goodness! Forgive me!” said Johnny. “You see, I was a hairdresser for decades. I can’t help but notice people’s hair.”

We sat and talked about our respective loved ones. Johnny’s wife, Eunice, was in discomfort due to a terminal disease. Johnny’s eyes filled with tears and he whispered that he wished he could take her pain away. He spoke reverently about Eunice, their four children, and the life they’d shared.

He asked about Wally and was fascinated by the story of how my “second father” came into my life precisely when I needed one. Johnny and I conversed like lifelong friends, and when we each felt the need to return to our loved ones, he asked for my mailing address.

Within days, I received a handcrafted card. In addition to skills with hair-cutting scissors, Johnny possessed startling talents in the art of paper-cutting: Using the tiniest scissors imaginable, he created beauty by expertly cutting shapes from black paper and gluing them onto white paper. The breathtaking result, as well as his words of warmth, moved me deeply.

By this time, Wally had gone home with a diagnosis of diverticulosis and a warning to avoid foods with small seeds. Wally wasn’t done with life quite yet, which brought me relief and joy.

Eunice passed, and Johnny kept up his artistic pursuits, friendships, and propensity to light up a room simply by walking through the doorway. We got together a few times, and spoke on the phone now and then, but mostly, we mailed each other handmade cards. Even though the distance between our homes was only three miles, we gave the USPS a real workout.

During my last visit with Johnny, we spent hours looking through dozens of his works of art. The other day, I saw Johnny’s death notice in the Recorder, and I gave thanks for the 96 years he spent brightening our world, making it more gentle, gorgeous, and kind.

Eveline MacDougall lives in Greenfield.