Weight of Days

By Joseph Hesch

He’s dressed in a black coat and hat,

winter or summer,  this old man

I pass every day on our pre-dawn walks.

He comes from beyond those trees,

then up the hill road. 

From there, I don’t know where he goes. 

I don’t have the time to wait

the significant amount of a half-hour

it takes him to get to top of the hill.

His gait is not quite a shuffle. 

It’s maybe half of a shuffle. 

It’s a shuff. 

His left foot, barely skimming the blacktop,

glides forward about ten inches

and then plunks down. 

The right foot follows, dragging forward

to a position of parallel big toes. 

Then a breath. 

Repeat.  Again. Again. Again.

Glacial, relentless in his path …

somewhere. 

I have seen him stop a few times. 

To rest?  Catch his breath? 

Retrieve a memory?  

He grips that large black duffle bag,

slung diagonally upon his shoulder. 

With his feeble bearing, I can’t tell you

how heavy the bag really is. 

The bag looks full of something.

Maybe that’s where he carries the memories.

Even memories have weight,

some more than others. 

He shoulders this burden every day,

focusing through silver lenses

on some point along that hypotenuse–

his line-of-sight–

from his often drippy nose,

to the front of his left boot.

He turns his head neither left nor right,

nor looks for assistance in his effort.

He’s become something more than

an old man inching upward

like a black sun at dawn,

neither pounding out in front of,

nor gasping to catch up with,

that crowd of want-to-be’s

or expect-to-be’s.

I guess he’s his own Alpha,

on the way to his Omega. 

Still shouldering his weight,

climbing that hill, to get to his somewhere.

Always forward. Always there.

Always my shadow between me and the sun.

Maybe my fore-shadow.
I don't look back to check.