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blueberries for you
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fyn, dennis, and i saw an old man in a wheel chair today, this third day of indian summer in western pennsylvania, this wednesday in america, while we are still alive.
we watched him moving quickly towards us, pushing himself with the aid of just one leg, the other one was missing above the knee.
a cool breeze blew out of the warm, cloudless blue sky that the full moon had set in earlier, and it stood his short, grey hair on end. as he approached, i could see his eyes squinting to look at me. his t-shirt read, "beer:the breakfast of champions."
he asked us what we were doing and we were glad to tell him about all the topsoil we brought in, the birch trees we would plant, and how beautiful we were making the apartment complex he was living in.
fyn asked him what he was doing.
he said he was off to get a draft and a sandwich. "want me to bring you one," he asked, and i could see a few of his teeth were missing. "sure," i said, even though i wasn't sure if he meant the food or the beer.
it didn't really matter. i just felt honoured to be able to talk to him.
we watched him wheel away down the sidewalk, arms pushing with dertermined precision. everything presented an obstacle: the speeding autos of the four way, the uneveness of the asphalt, the sun in his face, but nothing slowed him down. he moved like he was under the controls of God's remote control, erratic, but purposeful, with no wasted action.
he was so fucking cool.
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