The Walkway

Author : Kathy Pippig Harris
Shadows of leaves tumbled and danced 'round her, then fell to the sidewalk; teased free by the breeze. Large oaks and ash trees, generations old, lined the street. Between the sidewalks on either side of the road a lush, grassy median ran the length of the boulevard.It was the middle of March, sunny and warm. Every now and then a breeze would kick up, skirl over the sun-warmed cement, stir the limbs of trees. Birds pruned themselves under the gentle cascades of lawn sprinklers. Squirrels chittered in the leafy boughs, scampered 'neath the trees, played tag with one another in manicured yards.With a lumbering pace and head bent she was walking home. Only when she saw a curb at her feet did she know that she'd reached another street. She shifted her schoolbooks from one arm to the other and clamped her arm tight against her side. A tear from each eye slipped from her face to the cement below. Two drops, one of sadness, one of frustration. In moments they dried away. New to the area, the school, and everything around her, the girl felt decidedly glum. She was praying for a friend; feeling one, good, friend would shift her perception of this new place. Bring it closer to feeling like home.She disappeared behind a long, boxy, stretch of shrubbery as she turned a corner. A block behind her, he could smell the tang of regret and loneliness in the moist air that lingered in her wake. Just in front of him a thin-legged, skinny dog ambled nonchalantly on the walkway. He had peach-blonde hair that stood out from his slim body and lanky legs in tattered tufts. His small, dark amber ears flopped down and only stood up when he tilted his scruffy head back to bark. Cotton candy fluffs of sun-bleached peach colored hair stood out from his face and the top of his head. A scrappy little guy, he'd been left behind when his family moved. Sticking around places where there'd be people made him a happy dog. His dark, bright eyes studied the man as he swiveled his head over his shoulder to get a good look at the person on the walk behind him.The man turned his palm in the direction of the path ahead and nodded. The dog took note, chuffed his approval, spun one loopy circle, then paused a moment. A stray zephyr stirred the cotton candy fur atop his head. His pink tongue shot out the side of his muzzle and with a smile he was off.The offbeat tap of an oak cane played counterpart to bird song and the gurgle of a fountain in the yard the man was passing. Stooped with age and slowed by time his body bent as if tugged by gravity. Tall and thin, his clothes hung on a frame that had once filled the garments with the virile, supple body of youth and good health. Even with the new prescription in his glasses, nothing looked sharp. The world for him was a bit hazy. Blurry, like his memory seemed to be getting. He didn't hear so well anymore, either. And though the bird's melody carried sweetly to his ear, the liquid spill of the fountain was beyond his grasp. He stopped in front of a stone bench. Putting his weight to the cane he turned around and sat down. The cool shade felt good. He lowered his head and when a curl of wind brought to him the fresh perfume of orange blossoms, memories filled his thoughts.The images unfurled like the frames of an old movie that had been shot with a soft focus lens. He did not know it, but he shared his visions of yesteryear with the man who had paused to quietly enjoy the beauty around him. And the old man's memories were beautiful, indeed. The elderly man had little left to him but his memories, and those he cherished. He stored them within easy reach; in his heart. When loneliness emptied him, leaving him feeling hollow and obsolete he could always pull out his treasured rememberings: The day he wedded his beloved wife. The burbling giggle of his infant granddaughter. Paying the last installment on the mortgage for the house in which he and his wife raised their three children. The devotion of the cat who had become his constant companion, all those years, after his wife had passed on. The faraway days of his childhood. All gone now...He stood, slowly, painfully, to resume his walk. He pulled himself up. Rested a bit, with his weight on the cane. And, then, something soft rubbed against his pants, twined around his leg and then moved onto the other leg. The touch had been so soft that the man could not have felt it. The purring too tenuous to be heard he had not noticed. And yet a smile worked its way onto his face crinkled his now sparkling eyes. His head high, the man strode forward. A breeze played at the cat's heels. Blew a couple of rose petals through his translucent body. The cat twitched his tail once, then, the wind forgotten, the feline purred as he pressed his head softly, again, to the man's thin leg as four paws kept pace with his old friend.She shouldn't feel as old as she did at 67. The woman scanned the street, homes, yards, and flowers through a wet haze. She had received a phone call from her daughter. Her child had called to tell her the tests the doctor had ordered earlier in the month had come back positive. Her daughter had been diagnosed with cancer.Striding quietly behind her He quickened His step to catch up with her. She stopped, sobs shaking her body... and He took another step. When she opened her eyes, He looked out, and she saw the world around her through His sight. Through her ears He listened, and she heard the life surrounding her. She took a quick, deep inhalation, and a panorama of scents filled her as He breathed with her. Fragrances she had never smelled drifted up from flowers and plants, alive with colors for which there were no names. The very air around her felt like the finest silk against her skin. A cool breeze lifted the hair from her forehead and caressed her brow before traveling on down the walkway. He stepped away from her and followed the path of the breeze.She then gazed upward and smiled. Hope and faith renewed her spirit. She turned slowly around, taking it all in. Nothing, ever, would look the same again. She thought of her daughter and strode through the sun-dappled shade of the walkway.The walkway that our Creator tends...Copyright 2004 Kathy Pippig Harris~~*~~Kathy lives in California's San Joaquin Valley with her husband and furry family. She is a weekly columnist for the publication "Frank Talk" and a published author of five novels. She states, "Were it not for her need, desire, and love of writing -- she would surely go mad!"
Keyword : religion,spirituality,faith,strength,hope,God,Creator