Happy Birthday Ines.

My friends Ramon and Marie birthed a little girl a couple of days ago and last night I tromped up to the hospital last night to sing the new Ines a song. When I got there, Ramon had already left for the evening, presumably to go home and assure their older, used daughter that mother will be home shortly. I sang the song and played for a while, strumming while Marie retold the little intricacies of the birth and made many French filler sounds.
I left her and her bright red, wrinkly little baby in peace after about a half an hour.
In the elevator a fellow noticed my surfing magazine peeking out from under my arm and asked me where I surf.
This is always a pretty embarrassing question as I don't really surf as much as I ought to, and all the places I purport to surf on the East Coast, I only have surfed a handful of times at best.
Living in Malibu (his wife grew up in Santa Barbara) he is always excited to meet surfers in New York.
As I told him the story about singing to the new born and I showed him the ukulele, he started to tell me about his mother, who had one kind of cancer and then, once over-radiated for that, also achieved leukemia. He told me his story as we walked down the confusing corridors of the hospital and, as I have only had negative results with ailing mothers lately, I became increasingly uncomfortable with what I might say to cheer him up.
As we neared the taxi waiting area he asked where I was going, obviously not wanting to end the conversation. A little unsure of how I felt about the proposition I said I was heading into Brooklyn, true enough. He was heading somewhere else.
I am always confounded by the problem of what to say when parting such company. I obviously don't want to say "good luck" and sounding crass. I also don't want to say "my prayers will be with you" and risk the guy thinking I am some sort of religious type. This is a weird phobia I have, coming as I do from that background. So I spurted out something along new-agey lines of "I will send my good energies your way" or some other ridiculous sounding crud. I meant it, but it sounded really dumb.
As I got into the cab I thought about the interaction.
As I sat there I realized I had missed a pretty golden opportunity to maybe help someone out. My cab was still right in front of his waiting at the light and I leaned out my window waving my arms. He opened his door and I asked him if he wanted to go out for a drink.
He declined, saying he had to "get back."
We drove off in different directions.

I wish I had given him my card.