By Chance, While Jogging

Jogging down the road, bright clear warm day Past a home for the elderly, retirement place of some sort. Old, old man in front of me, barely moving, foot by foot, seeming lost. I pass quickly, meaning to avoid some interaction. He stops. “Help me, please. Help me.” I stop. “Can you help me? I need to cross. Fire hydrant.” Fire hydrant? There is no fire hydrant. “You want to cross the street? ” “I want…I don’t feel so well. I shouldn’t have come out, but…” “Here, take my arm.” He grabs hold, a frail tiny man, stooped a bit, maybe five feet tall. Down from the curb, his weight drops to heavy-soled shoes. I raise my hand to stop an oncoming car. We cross slowly, step by painful step. The River Jordan was not so wide. “You going to the bus stop? ” “There.” He points to the bench across the way. We reach the other side, leave the vast asphalt expanse behind. He heaves his leg above the opposite curb, a landing of fresh-mown grass. “You okay? ” I ask. Catching his breath, “My name’s Jack McGrath. I’ve lived there 25 years.” We shake hands. “Thank you, ” he says. Our eyes meet for the very first—and last—time. “Thank you very much.” Old gray eyes deep set in a grizzled unshaven face. “You’re welcome.” We understand each other in this timeless moment. We both see the future. And for a moment we are brothers on the same journey. Our hands unclasp, I turn my back and walk away. Then run, alive into a gust of wind. Looking back, over my shoulder, I see his small form huddled on the bench. Waiting. For a bus to come And take him away. (Previously published in Kookamonga Square, July 2000)