I was driving home from work the other day, and
as I pulled up to a stop light, I saw an older
fellow, probably around 50, walking home. The
golden evening sunlight slanted through the trees
and splashed on the cracked sidewalk at his feet,
and his shadow cut at the yellow light, waging a
picturesque battle of light and dark.
Grey hair hung from his head, and a limp grey
mustache decorated his wrinkled features. He wore
a faded jean jacket, soiled, but matching the old
pants he wore. Battered, well worn boots, into
which the care of his feet had been placed,
drummed the sidewalk as he moved along it. He
carried a battered grey plastic lunch box, with a
gritty stainless steel thermos perched perilously
on top, nestled between the long handles.
He matched his neighborhood; old, picturesque,
friendly. Clapboard houses in yellows and blues,
the once vibrant paint now peeling and fading in the sun.
Dirty, half melted snow drifts loitered on the sides of
the road and on lawns, waiting for the heat of
spring and a good chinook to send them on their
A picture is worth a thousand words. I miss my camera.