I Watched Him Walking

I watched him walking down the road on the way to a friend's house this afternoon. He turned and looked back to the window where I sat and lifted his right hand and waved.

I watched him walk down the road with the afternoon sun lighting his frazzled hair and his sweater hanging down and his loose-fitting jeans.

He walked with the stride of someone who knows where he is going and so finds no need to hurry, the stride of an adult, not the stride of that little boy who used to roll on the floor are jump in the leaves.

Then as he walked away, he looked over at his right hand and shook it. He shook it like something was stuck to it. He shook it like he couldn't get it off. First his hand, then his arm.

In the sun, with the leaves of our young oak trees rustling in the northern breeze, this man who used to be my child walked down the road shaking his hand and arm wildly just like the child who used to be my child.

He isn't gone, yet.

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