The old man got up when he always got up. Went for his walk like he did every morning.
After sweeping the lanai, filling the water bowl and picking up the dog shit in the backyard. Routine.
Felt blessed my parents could afford a pool.
Whenever he thought about being old, he thought about being young.
Whenever he thought about being young, he thought about running. Not the work, not the women, not the worry nor the wonder… running.
Maybe it’s an animal thing. Moving. He thought maybe moving might be the definition of life. Living is motion.
You can’t jump into the same river twice.
Christmas Eve. Back in the day, his buddies would show up bright and early – not too bright, not too early – at Patricia Court, 2182 NW Hoyt, Portland, OR. Middle-aged it turns out, but looking back, we thought we were young. Looking back from here, we were right.
Trot down 21st, then Burnside, through the Galleria, up Broadway, through Nordstrom, curl back around down to the river, back up through Meier & Frank. Where there’d be a sale on. There was always a sale on at Meier & Frank.
We ran through the stores, up the escalators, around the fragrance departments, down the escalators, avoiding the shoppers bundled with purchases.
Should’ve had bells on.
Friends. Moving. Just being free.
On his seventy-first birthday, he walked seventy-one minutes. There’s something to be said for that….
Life is good.