My Old Men

Out walking this morning, I see four familiar bodies walking towards me in the distance. I haven’t seen them for several months. They’re all hunched over a few degrees further, their hats bowed a little lower, their pace, not what it used to be. I can hear their chatter as I get closer. Nothing distinct, just four men talking about nothing and everything. They walk together three times a week.

There used to be five of them. All men in their late seventies, early eighties. The one I knew best, Courtney, left us all behind a year-and-a-half ago. Advanced pancreatic cancer discovered after a car accident that broke a rib. His beloved wife, and my poetry-writing friend Ann died a year earlier. Stomach cancer for her. We’re getting to that age. It’s not exactly dropping like flies, but it often feels like that.

As I got closer, I debated avoiding my old men. I was tired. I’d been walking for over an hour and one of them tends to keep you rooted in conversation for too long, but it was good to see them. They’re nice men, neighbors, and I wondered how they’re all doing, so I turned towards them instead, calling out, hey fellas, so good to see you this morning! They smiled back, said, good morning to you too, then kept walking. As they drifted away, I could imagine them asking each other, who was that?