See me now:  Standing on the porch. . .falling through the door . . peering at the ceiling where the lights have begun to flicker.  See me now:  Arms tired from reaching for the heavy basket; feet sore from trudging to and from the end of the driveway.

Pack the computer; sit at the coffee shop.  A man stops at my table, says, “Do you mind if my friend and I converse?  I can be vehement.  I can be boisterous.”  I smile at him; I shake my head.  My voice stubbornly refuses to play along but he gets the point.  Do I care?  Certainly not; silence saturates the air of my home.  I came here to write because I feared that silence, feared that it might steal my words.

Quitting time approaches and I tuck the computer back into its case.  The sheaf of papers follows.  Two hours have passed with nothing more eventful than a hug from Farmer Greene who chanced into the place.  We talked about politics; he shared about his brother’s fragile state.  I touched his arm.  Then the mood shifted; the smile returned to his face.   Quick as that, off he went again, another hug, another quietly closing door.

Behind the wheel — driving home — at the red light.  Then I saw him:  My mystery man, the walking man, 8:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m.  South to north and back again.  I pulled over, quietly put the window down, watched him pass.  He did not turn.  He kept walking.  Still.

The youth in his faced astonished me.

I continued down the road not quite sure what I had seen.

It’s the fourteenth day of the thirty-first month of My [Never-Ending] Year Without Complaining.  The little dog sleeps at my feet.  All is well.  Life continues.