Things That Make You Think

 

The officer reached for his radio to call Social Services when he saw the empty leash dragging on the pavement behind me.

“Sir,” the young deputy said, stepping out of his cruiser. He kept one hand near his belt, his eyes darting between my face and the empty red nylon strap. “Do you know where you are right now? Do you know… there’s no dog attached to that clip?”

I stopped. I tightened my grip on the handle.

I knew exactly what he was seeing.

He saw an 82-year-old man in a faded Navy windbreaker, standing on the corner of Oak and 4th at 6:30 A.M., talking to thin air.

I knew what the neighbors were seeing, too. I’ve seen the blinds twitch in the windows. I know what they write on the neighborhood Facebook group. “Old Mr. Henderson is losing it.” “It’s not safe.” “Someone should call his daughter before he hurts himself.”

My daughter, Jessica, was just here last week. She left a glossy brochure on my kitchen counter for “Silver Creek Assisted Living.” She thinks I’m slipping. She thinks I’m lonely. She thinks my mind is dissolving into a fog of dementia.

But what they call madness, I call loyalty.

You see, for 45 years, this morning walk wasn’t a solo act. It was a trio. Me, my wife Sarah, and a rescue Golden Retriever named Rusty.

Every morning, before the Florida heat kicked in, we walked. We walked through the recessions of the 80s. We walked through the silence after the kids went to college. We walked when we were broke, and we walked when we finally paid off the mortgage.

That walk was the heartbeat of our marriage.

Rusty went first. It’s the tragedy of dogs; they break your heart by simply not living long enough. The morning after we buried him in the backyard, I went to put the leash away in the garage.

“Don’t,” Sarah said. Her voice was sharp, cracking a little.

She grabbed the leash. And we walked. Just the two of us.

I carried the coffees—mine black, hers with two Splendas and a splash of hazelnut. She carried the empty leash.

I thought it was grief. I thought it would pass. But she carried it every single morning for six years.

When I finally asked her why she insisted on dragging that empty leash around the neighborhood, inviting stares, she squeezed my hand.

“It’s not empty, Jim,” she told me. “It’s heavy. It’s holding the weight of every time he made us laugh. Every time he pulled us toward the park. It’s muscle memory, Jim. My hand just… misses him.”

I didn’t get it then. I thought it was eccentric.

But I get it now.

Seven months ago, the heart attack took Sarah. It happened in the kitchen, while she was making toast. No warnings. No long goodbyes. Just… gone.

The silence in my house isn’t just quiet. It’s deafening. It screams.

For two weeks, I sat in my recliner. I didn’t shave. I didn’t eat. The world turned gray. The brochure for the nursing home started looking less like a prison and more like a surrender.

But then, I looked at the hook by the door.

I grabbed the thermos. I made the coffee—two Splendas, splash of hazelnut. I don’t even like hazelnut. But I made it for her.

And I grabbed the red leash.

So, I walk.

I walk past the spot where she used to stop and complain about the neighbor’s unkempt lawn. I pause at the bench where we used to sit and watch the sunrise. I speak to her. I tell her about the grandkid’s soccer game. I tell her I miss her cooking.

And for twenty minutes, I’m not a lonely widower in a silent house.

I can feel her. I can feel her hand in mine. I can feel the rhythm of our life, keeping time with my steps.

The young deputy was still staring at me, waiting for an answer. He looked like a good kid. Probably about the same age as my grandson.

“I’m not lost, son,” I said, my voice raspy.

I held up the thermos. “This coffee is for my wife, Sarah. She passed seven months ago.”

I held up the leash. “And this… this was for our dog, Rusty. She carried it for him. Now, I carry it for her.”

I looked him dead in the eye.

“People think grief is a mental illness,” I told him. “They want you to take a pill and ‘move on.’ But you don’t move on from your home. You don’t move on from your other half.”

“This isn’t dementia,” I said, shaking the leash gently. “This is devotion. I’m not walking an invisible dog. I’m taking the long way home with the woman I love.”

The officer’s hand dropped from his radio. His posture softened. He looked down at his own wedding band, twisting it on his finger.

“I… I’m sorry, sir,” he whispered.

“Don’t be,” I said. “We’re having a lovely morning.”

He nodded, tipped his cap, and got back in his car. He didn’t call Social Services.

So, if you drive through my town and see an old man walking an empty leash, don’t pity me. Don’t call the authorities.

I’m the luckiest man on earth.

Because while everyone else is walking alone, staring at their phones… I’m walking with my family.

Grief is just love with nowhere to go. So every morning, I give it a place to stretch its legs.

Discover more meaningful short stories on Things That Make You Think on Facebook.

Plant a seed...

 

I planted a wish in my pocket. I’m waiting to see if it blooms.

"Planting seeds in the pocket of my heart. I am blooming petals of confidence and magic. And after all this time, I am coming home to myself."

Image Source: Letters from Annawin on Facebook

The verbige between them is from Google search for similar phrases. Another of my rabbit hole finds.

When you're lost

 

And know, that when you're lost,

And you're unsure of which way to go,

A gentle hand will guide you,

Through the wind the rain and snow.

Theres a light out there, in the wilderness,

Shining bright to guide you home,

You are never gone from sight,

So you must never feel that you're alone.

The Universe will keep you safe,

In a protecting, loving, hold,

Whilst the one who loves his children,

Leads you back into his fold ...

~ C.E. Coombes

Image via Pinterest

Source: Serendipity Corner on Facebook

Watch what happens...

 

At times we allow pessimism and doubt
to control the narrative, almost as if we are creating
a safety blanket, that, should the worst happen,
we are already prepared.
The problem with that, is we are subconsciously already 

attracting a darker outcome than that which
is really desired.
Dare to look on the bright side and allow the light in.
Love yourself sufficiently to feel deserving of good 

outcomes and happy endings.

You are what you seek.
Look for the light and expect to find it,
And watch what happens ..

~ C.E. Coombes
Art by Amye

Source: Serendipity Corner on Facebook

One time I met a woman

 

One time I met a woman

With a basket on her arm

A basket filled with patches

And with fabric, thread and yarn

I wondered why she had it all

And so I walked a while

Watching as she greeted

Other people with a smile

I saw her greet a woman

Hanging on by just a thread

And a girl who was unravelling

With each and every step

I watched her as she stitched together

Parts all torn and frayed

And as she tied their loose ends

With the fabric she had made

And then I watched a man

Who told her that he couldn’t cope

He spoke about the heartache

That had snatched away his hope

She listened to him calmly

As she measured out her thread

And then she gently held his arm

And carefully she said

“I’ll hold you for a moment

And I’ll treat your heart with care

And it will feel different,

But perhaps less empty there”

But as I stood and watched her

As she patched his broken heart

I noticed that her dress

Was quietly coming apart

I realised that the hat she wore

Had six or seven holes

And the boots she wore upon her feet

Had barely any soles

The tights she wore beneath her dress

Were laddered and threadbare

And the jacket round her shoulders

Was in need of great repair

And now I saw it clearly:

That she spent her every day

Fixing other people

Making sure they were okay

Patching up and sewing

So that they could feel stronger

When they just couldn’t keep themselves

Together any longer

But she too needed love and care

And she too needed help

Yet she was spending all her time

On everybody else

On making sure that they were fine

To chase their hopes and dreams

Whilst she slowly, without knowing

Came apart

right

at

the

s e a m s

*****

Becky Hemsley 2024

Lovely artwork by Mariajesus Palacios

This poem is in my latest collection Words to Remember on Amazon.

Source: Becky Hemsley Poetry on Facebook

I did.

There I am, watching him. He sits on the steps of the Shell Station. A backpack beside him. His skin is rawhide. His beard is white.

His name is Buck. He’s from North Carolina. He says he completed two tours in Vietnam.

He’s not here begging, he’s resting his feet.

“My old feet hurt more’n they used to,” says Buck. “Hard getting old, buddy.”

There is a half-smoked cigar next to him. He dug this used cigar from an ashtray. It still has life in it, he says.

He’s sipping coffee.

“First cup’a joe I had in a week. Fella gave me a quarter a few minutes ago. Piled my coins together to buy me a cup.”

A quarter.

When Buck went inside to buy it, there were only cold dregs left in the pot. He asked the cashier if it were possible to brew a fresh pot. She told him to get lost.

“But I’m paying for it,” he insisted.

She escorted him to the door.

So, he’s drinking dregs for which he paid full price—for which he is grateful.

There are holes in his shoes. He found these sneakers in a sporting-good-store dumpster. Buck estimates he’s put nearly eight hundred miles on them. Who knows if he’s exaggerating or not. Buck has a flare for the dramatic.

Still, his bloody toes poke through the fronts. His middle toenail is missing.

Buck explains, “God says, ‘Don't worry what you’ll eat, drink, or wear.’ And I believe it. But it's hard sometimes. ‘Specially when you ain’t eaten and you don’t have [cussword] to wear.”

So I walk inside the gas station on a mission. I ask the aforementioned cashier to brew a fresh pot of coffee—I tell her it’s for me. I am very polite about it.

She smiles and says, “Sure, sweetie.”

Ain't she sweet.

I buy a hot cup, an armful of snacks, and a pack of Swisher Unsweetened Mini-Cigars. I give them to Buck on the sidewalk, and I tuck a bill into his hand. I wish I had something bigger, but I don't.

You would think helping someone down on their luck would make you feel good all over. Instead, it just makes me feel like I can’t do nearly enough.

Buck starts crying.

And the truth is, I’m embarrassed to even be telling you all this. Because this story isn’t about me—it’s about Buck.

Buck says with glazed eyes, “Did you know that I see God in you?”

And now I’m the one who has some major eye-glazing going on.

I stumble over my own words. All I can get out is, “Thank you for your service.”

I'm a bumbling fool. The words sounded better in my head than they sounded coming out of my mouth. They seem so… Lightweight.

He smiles. He stands to walk away. His big backpack must weigh eighty pounds.

“Going to Walmart,” he says. “Gon’ buy me some new shoes. Gon’ get me a hot pizza, man. Yessir, just saw God on the street corner.”

And he's gone.

I’m a middle-aged American. I’ve never known hunger. I’ve never not had a Sheetrock ceiling to cover my head. In many ways I'm spoiled. I'm lazy. I'm selfish. And sometimes, I get so lost in my own self-centered world that I can't see.

But.

I just met someone. An invisible someone. A man who—despite whatever his problems may be—isn't lost at all. A man who knows things, different truths than I will ever know.

Yes, he smokes secondhand cigars. But he also sees mankind. He sees us at our most charitable. And he sees us at our worst every time we tell him to get lost.

He sleeps in the open air, counting stars, covered by his military-surplus blanket. He prays for heaven to feed him every day. And somehow heaven does.

He is a man who people overlook because it's easier that way. A man who asked me for nary a thing.

Mister Buck, sir. Today, you met a young redhead who happened to have a few extra dollars in his pocket. A guy who wishes he could do more for an American serviceman, but is too ignorant to know how sometimes.

So you were wrong, Buck. You didn't see God on a street corner today.

I did. 

Source: Sean Dietrich on Facebook -

Mildly Feral

 

I am often mistaken for an adult.

It’s the composure.

The vocabulary.

The refusal to argue with nonsense.

The rest of me is still barefoot, wild-eyed, and mildly feral.

꩜ Ella

Source: Rebel Thriver on Facebook