I used to watch the old man walk his dog
up and down the street.
They would walk slow, hunched and together.
I once imagined them in a photograph,
both of them scowling, growling and grumpy,
virtually indistinguishable.
Last week,
for the first time in many years,
the old man walked his route alone.
Yesterday he was out there again,
in short sleeves, sun on his face,
walking by himself.
Perhaps the dog is sick, I thought,
or maybe too old to go out anymore.
A part of me
can’t help but think the worst:
That his crabby old bulldog
has gone to the big sleep,
leaving him to kick the snow and gravel
by himself.
Doubtless, he always walked alone.
But it is that chest that rises and falls beside us,
that set of eyes that see what we see but at parallax,
that makes our hobbling worthwhile,
that tell us
it is not enough to simply walk.
We must witness the walks of others
and forgive them in their missteps
for we too walk,
imperfectly,
asking to be witnessed,
forgiven.
Today,
the old man is out there again.
He does not know that I have noticed.
© — Michael Gravel
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