A Choice We Make

There’s a house on 8^th Street that I pass on the way to my gym class twice a week. There’s always a bowl of fresh water set on the grass for dogs, there’s a birdbath, and there’s a long, wide porch on the front that reminds me of my parents’ porch in Philadelphia, the porch my dad is probably sitting on right now. To the right of the big front door, there’s a hand-painted sign that says God Bless America. These days, a sign like that makes me wonder who’s inside. The house itself has seen better days. The gray-green siding needs paint, the windows need caulking, and the porch tilts downward to the sidewalk. I’ve never seen anyone coming or going. But this morning, I did.

He was slow-moving. An older man, probably 85 or so. He was raking up leaves and twigs, making small piles to put into the plastic yard-waste container he’d parked on the sidewalk. I thought to offer help but stopped myself. He was doing fine without me and there’s always elder pride to consider. Instead, I said good morning, told him how nice it all looked, and kept walking.

An hour later, I walked past again going the other direction. The old man’s rake and bin had been put away. No sign of him and everything in the yard looked nicer still. When I turned to look at the house, there he was, sitting alone on a rocking chair. Hello again, I said. And he said, hello again to you! We’d seen one another, not once but twice. A gift for both of us. I stopped, asked how long he’d lived in the house. 53 years, he said. We bought the place in ’72. ‘We.’ Somewhere, there was a wife or partner. I told him about visiting my dad last week, that my mom died recently, that they’d lived together in their house for 63 years. He smiled. Some people just plant themselves, he said.

As I walked away, I felt tears pooling around my eyes. Some people just plant themselves, I thought, but I’m not one of them.

Thank you.