I am walking my dogs. They are dragging me along the road. My shoes make skid marks on the pavement.
Walking my dogs is like trying to walk a herd of caffeinated water buffalo. My dogs exert so much pulling force that my shoulders pop from their sockets. When this happens, I generally say bad words. Neighbors who happen to be nearby glare with disapproving faces. But I am used to these kinds of scowls because I was raised Southern Baptist.
Right now, I’m taking the dogs to the bay. There’s a spot near the water where everyone from nearby neighborhoods visits. It’s beautiful. There is something enchanting about our bay.
If you visit this secluded spot at sunset, you will see lots of people who had the same idea you had. Husbands and wives. Kids on bicycles. A happy young couple. A teenager with a fuschia mohawk and multiple facial piercings.
It wasn't always crowded. Long ago, my wife and I would visit this spot and we'd be alone. Then word got out. Today, everybody
and their brother knows about it, so at sunset it’s a Gaither Homecoming.
But tonight it’s empty. There is nobody here except me and some lady. We’ve met before, but nothing more than a few neighborly greetings. I don’t know her name.
She is late sixties maybe early seventies. She sits on a log, overlooking the big water. Our bay is 127 square miles of brackish blue and, like I said earlier, there is something enchanting about it.
The woman’s head is bowed, she doesn’t look like she wants to be bothered. I keep quiet.
Then again, I have enough of my mother inside me that I have to ask questions. I am nosy. There is nothing I can do about this. I don’t even try to fight it anymore.
“Ma’am, are you okay?” I ask.
She opens her eyes. And I feel bad…