WEBVTT 1 00:00:00.360 --> 00:00:04.160 Arriving. The door closes behind me with a small click, 2 00:00:05.480 --> 00:00:09.320 and I stand for a moment on the step. The 3 00:00:09.480 --> 00:00:13.720 evening is settled into that soft blue gray that comes 4 00:00:14.000 --> 00:00:18.000 just after the sun goes down, when the air is 5 00:00:18.079 --> 00:00:24.800 neither warm nor cool, but somewhere in between, holding the 6 00:00:24.839 --> 00:00:29.320 memory of the day that passed. I am not sure 7 00:00:29.359 --> 00:00:36.640 where I am going. I am simply going. The street 8 00:00:36.679 --> 00:00:42.679 is quiet, not empty. There is still light in some windows, 9 00:00:44.119 --> 00:00:47.159 Still the faint sound of a television from inside one 10 00:00:47.240 --> 00:00:52.200 of the houses. Still the occasional car passing at the 11 00:00:52.280 --> 00:00:56.960 end of the block. But quiet in the way that matters, 12 00:00:58.880 --> 00:01:02.200 the kind of quiet that lets you hear your own footsteps, 13 00:01:03.520 --> 00:01:08.000 the rhythm of them, the soft tap of my shoes 14 00:01:08.040 --> 00:01:13.159 against the pavement. I take the first step down the path. 15 00:01:14.640 --> 00:01:17.719 The grass on either side is still damp from earlier 16 00:01:19.200 --> 00:01:23.359 will I did not see the weather turn. Perhaps it 17 00:01:23.439 --> 00:01:27.159 came and went while I was inside, while I was 18 00:01:27.159 --> 00:01:30.760 making tea, while I was standing at the kitchen window, 19 00:01:30.879 --> 00:01:35.239 watching the light change on the wall. It is that 20 00:01:35.319 --> 00:01:39.680 kind of evening, the kind that slips past without announcement. 21 00:01:41.560 --> 00:01:46.200 The gate is iron, old, painted green once but now 22 00:01:46.319 --> 00:01:50.640 mostly rust, and the traces of paint that cling stubbornly 23 00:01:50.719 --> 00:01:56.040 to the curves. It swings open with a familiar groan, 24 00:01:56.599 --> 00:02:03.359 and I step through iron On the street ahead of me, 25 00:02:04.159 --> 00:02:06.599 the lamp at the corner is just beginning to glow. 26 00:02:08.360 --> 00:02:12.000 It is the first one. I watch as the filament warms, 27 00:02:12.840 --> 00:02:16.840 as the yellow light pushes out against the dusk, as 28 00:02:16.879 --> 00:02:21.240 it claims its small circle of the sidewalk. I do 29 00:02:21.360 --> 00:02:26.560 not hurry. There is nowhere I need to be the 30 00:02:26.560 --> 00:02:31.400 first lamps. I walk slowly, and the lamps come on 31 00:02:31.400 --> 00:02:35.240 one by one as I pass. This is the way 32 00:02:35.280 --> 00:02:39.479 of this street, the way it has always been, though 33 00:02:39.520 --> 00:02:43.199 I cannot say how I know this. Perhaps I have 34 00:02:43.280 --> 00:02:48.800 walked it before, in some other evening, in some other life. 35 00:02:48.840 --> 00:02:52.240 Perhaps I am simply noticing now what I have always 36 00:02:52.240 --> 00:02:57.840 failed to see. The first lamp is a yellow orange, 37 00:02:58.319 --> 00:03:03.479 warm against the fading blue of the sky. The next one, 38 00:03:03.639 --> 00:03:08.039 half a block down, flickers once before settling into its glow. 39 00:03:09.680 --> 00:03:12.639 The third is steady from the start, as if it 40 00:03:12.680 --> 00:03:15.080 has been waiting for me, as if it knew I 41 00:03:15.080 --> 00:03:19.319 would come this way. I stop beneath the third lamp 42 00:03:19.319 --> 00:03:23.280 and look up. The light is brighter than I expected, 43 00:03:24.240 --> 00:03:26.919 a small sun in a cage of glass and metal, 44 00:03:27.800 --> 00:03:29.759 and it makes the leaves of the tree above me 45 00:03:29.919 --> 00:03:34.639 glow a deep, rich green. There is a moth circling 46 00:03:34.680 --> 00:03:39.560 the fixture, small and pale, drawn to the warmth. I 47 00:03:39.639 --> 00:03:43.319 watch it for a moment, its path erratic and purposeful, 48 00:03:43.360 --> 00:03:48.199 all at once, and then I move on ahead. The 49 00:03:48.240 --> 00:03:52.120 houses line the street in their quiet rows. Some have 50 00:03:52.280 --> 00:03:56.280 lights in the windows, already soft squares of yellow cutting 51 00:03:56.360 --> 00:04:02.000 through the shutters. Others are dark, curtains drawn, their doors 52 00:04:02.039 --> 00:04:05.479 closed against the evening. I do not know who lives 53 00:04:05.479 --> 00:04:08.680 in them. I do not need to know. I am 54 00:04:09.000 --> 00:04:13.639 only walking. A woman passes me on the opposite side 55 00:04:13.680 --> 00:04:18.360 of the street. She is carrying a plastic bag, and 56 00:04:18.399 --> 00:04:23.160 she nods as she goes by, a small gesture the 57 00:04:23.279 --> 00:04:27.600 kind that neighbors make. I nod back. Though I do 58 00:04:27.720 --> 00:04:32.079 not know her name, the street knows us both, and 59 00:04:32.160 --> 00:04:37.480 that is enough. The baker's shop. The baker's shop is 60 00:04:37.519 --> 00:04:44.279 still open, just barely. Through the window, I can see 61 00:04:44.279 --> 00:04:50.160 the baker wiping down the counter, his movements slow and deliberate, 62 00:04:51.319 --> 00:04:54.040 the way of someone who has done the same task 63 00:04:54.399 --> 00:05:00.839 every night for years. The display cases are nearly empty, now, 64 00:05:01.920 --> 00:05:05.920 just a few loaves left on the shelves, their tops 65 00:05:06.040 --> 00:05:11.279 golden and cracked. I stop outside the window and the 66 00:05:11.319 --> 00:05:15.600 smell reaches me. It is the smell of bread, of course, 67 00:05:16.439 --> 00:05:20.199 but more than that, it is the smell of flower 68 00:05:21.040 --> 00:05:26.959 and heat and yeast, the smell of something being made, 69 00:05:27.199 --> 00:05:33.160 something being finished. It is warm and earthy, and it 70 00:05:33.240 --> 00:05:37.519 makes me think for a moment of mornings I have forgotten, 71 00:05:38.439 --> 00:05:42.360 of kitchens I have left behind. The baker does not 72 00:05:42.519 --> 00:05:46.639 see me. He is focused on his work on the counter, 73 00:05:47.480 --> 00:05:51.160 on the rag in his hands. The shop behind him 74 00:05:51.240 --> 00:05:56.079 is neat and quiet, the shelves already bear in places, 75 00:05:56.839 --> 00:06:00.839 the floor swept clean. There is a small clock on 76 00:06:00.920 --> 00:06:05.399 the wall above the register, its face yellowed with age, 77 00:06:06.040 --> 00:06:10.720 and I watch the second hand move. It is almost 78 00:06:10.879 --> 00:06:14.519 closing time, almost the end of the day for him. 79 00:06:15.480 --> 00:06:19.360 I press my hand against the glass, just for a moment. 80 00:06:20.079 --> 00:06:25.519 It is cool and smooth, and through it I can 81 00:06:25.560 --> 00:06:28.560 feel the faint warmth of the ovens that are still 82 00:06:28.639 --> 00:06:33.480 running at the back, still doing their work, still turning 83 00:06:33.519 --> 00:06:39.800 dough into bread. Then I step back and I let 84 00:06:39.879 --> 00:06:44.360 the shop be. The door is propped open with a 85 00:06:44.439 --> 00:06:49.199 small stone, and a dog lies on the step. A 86 00:06:49.319 --> 00:06:55.519 terrier of some kind, brown and white and old. It 87 00:06:55.560 --> 00:06:58.959 does not look up as I pass. It is seen 88 00:06:59.079 --> 00:07:01.920 enough of the world to know that a passing stranger 89 00:07:02.040 --> 00:07:07.120 is not worth the effort of attention the postman. Few 90 00:07:07.160 --> 00:07:12.199 blocks on I meet the postman. He is walking his 91 00:07:12.360 --> 00:07:15.800 round still, though the evening is late, the most of 92 00:07:15.839 --> 00:07:20.480 the houses have already received their mail. He carries a 93 00:07:20.519 --> 00:07:24.040 bag over his shoulder, heavy with the last of the letters, 94 00:07:24.879 --> 00:07:28.160 the last of the bills and postcards and envelopes that 95 00:07:28.319 --> 00:07:32.920 someone somewhere thought important enough to send. He nods at 96 00:07:32.959 --> 00:07:37.959 me as we pass. I nod backed. We do not speak. 97 00:07:38.639 --> 00:07:42.160 There is nothing to say. He has his work, and 98 00:07:42.240 --> 00:07:46.720 I have mine, though mine is only walking, only being 99 00:07:46.800 --> 00:07:50.920 here in the fading light. His uniform is blue, the 100 00:07:50.959 --> 00:07:54.399 color of the sky just before it turns tonight, and 101 00:07:54.480 --> 00:07:58.519 his cap sits low on his forehead. He is young, 102 00:07:59.160 --> 00:08:03.279 perhaps twenty five five, perhaps less, with the kind of 103 00:08:03.399 --> 00:08:07.360 face that is not yet learned to show exhaustion. He 104 00:08:07.399 --> 00:08:11.879 walks with purpose, each step measured, and he stops at 105 00:08:11.920 --> 00:08:17.120 each mailbox, each door, each gate. I watch him for 106 00:08:17.160 --> 00:08:20.240 a moment. As I go by. He slides a letter 107 00:08:20.360 --> 00:08:28.920 into a slot, then moves on the motion is practiced automatic, 108 00:08:30.360 --> 00:08:32.840 the kind of motion that comes from doing the same 109 00:08:32.919 --> 00:08:38.320 thing every day, in fair weather and foul, in heat 110 00:08:38.519 --> 00:08:43.480 and cold. There is a kind of peace in that, 111 00:08:43.639 --> 00:08:52.200 I think, a kind of stillness in the repetition a head. 112 00:08:52.720 --> 00:08:58.279 A child runs across the street chasing a ball. The 113 00:08:58.320 --> 00:09:03.720 postman pauses, waits, holds up a hand. The car that 114 00:09:03.840 --> 00:09:16.320 is approaching. The car slows, stops, waits. The child retrieves 115 00:09:16.360 --> 00:09:27.320 the ball and runs back to the sidewalk. The posseman 116 00:09:27.440 --> 00:09:34.480 waves the car on, it moves. Everything is ordinary, Everything 117 00:09:34.519 --> 00:09:44.080 is as it should be. The old car with the 118 00:09:44.159 --> 00:09:49.360 headlight out there, his car parked at the curb three 119 00:09:49.440 --> 00:09:56.799 houses down from where the street narrows. One headlight is out, 120 00:09:58.200 --> 00:10:01.960 the other glows amber in the dusk, throwing a pale 121 00:10:02.039 --> 00:10:05.320 circle onto the pavement that reaches almost to the sidewalk. 122 00:10:08.279 --> 00:10:15.440 I stop. I don't know why. There is nothing urgent 123 00:10:15.519 --> 00:10:21.360 about a head light out, nothing that demands attention, And 124 00:10:21.440 --> 00:10:25.159 yet I stand there for a moment with my hands 125 00:10:25.159 --> 00:10:28.360 in my pockets, looking at the car the way one 126 00:10:28.399 --> 00:10:32.320 looks at a face that holds a familiar expression. It 127 00:10:32.399 --> 00:10:37.360 is an old car, blue, or something that was once 128 00:10:37.480 --> 00:10:48.039 blue before the years softened it to gray. The chrome 129 00:10:48.120 --> 00:10:53.320 around the windshield is pitted with rust. A sticker in 130 00:10:53.360 --> 00:10:56.799 the rear window says something I cannot read from this distance, 131 00:10:59.360 --> 00:11:03.200 some fate announcement of a place, or a team, or 132 00:11:03.240 --> 00:11:08.720 a belief. The passenger seat holds a pair of folded newspapers. 133 00:11:09.879 --> 00:11:14.320 The dashboard is dark. I walk on, and a few 134 00:11:14.360 --> 00:11:17.200 minutes later I hear an engine turn over behind me. 135 00:11:18.919 --> 00:11:22.679 I do not turn around. I let the sound come 136 00:11:22.720 --> 00:11:27.200 to me, the rough idole at first, then the steady 137 00:11:27.240 --> 00:11:31.080 purr as it warms, Then the tires moving over the 138 00:11:31.120 --> 00:11:35.919 asphalt as it pulls away from the curb. The exhaust 139 00:11:36.039 --> 00:11:39.960 reaches me a moment later, the faint, sweet smell of 140 00:11:40.039 --> 00:11:43.919 gasoline and heat, and I breathe it in the way 141 00:11:43.960 --> 00:11:46.840 one breathes, and the smell of bread from an open window. 142 00:11:48.639 --> 00:11:50.960 It is the smell of a machine that is alive 143 00:11:51.080 --> 00:11:55.840 for now, that is going somewhere. I hear the car 144 00:11:55.879 --> 00:11:59.279 pass me on my left. I glance and see the 145 00:11:59.360 --> 00:12:03.519 single head light sweeping the road ahead. The other side dark, 146 00:12:04.600 --> 00:12:09.080 and for a moment the street looks lopsided, unbalanced, as 147 00:12:09.080 --> 00:12:12.519 though the night itself has a blind spot. Then the 148 00:12:12.600 --> 00:12:16.000 car is ahead of me, climbing the slight hill toward 149 00:12:16.039 --> 00:12:20.120 the corner, and the headlight sweeps across the facades of 150 00:12:20.159 --> 00:12:24.039 the houses on the right, catching a window, here, a 151 00:12:24.120 --> 00:12:28.679 fence post, there, a bush that flares briefly into bright 152 00:12:28.799 --> 00:12:32.120 green before the light moves on at the corner. The 153 00:12:32.120 --> 00:12:36.320 car turns right and the sound of it fades. The 154 00:12:36.360 --> 00:12:40.480 street is quieter now, the houses settle back into their 155 00:12:40.519 --> 00:12:47.240 evening shapes. A daub barks somewhere far off. Two sharp founds, 156 00:12:48.759 --> 00:12:52.399 and then nothing. The air is cool on my face, 157 00:12:54.120 --> 00:12:57.240 and I realize I had been walking faster than I 158 00:12:57.360 --> 00:13:03.320 meant to, driven by a small engine of my own, 159 00:13:03.879 --> 00:13:10.840 and I slow down again. The street continues, the sidewalk continues. 160 00:13:12.200 --> 00:13:17.600 I continue the pharmacy on the corner. The pharmacy is 161 00:13:17.679 --> 00:13:22.080 on the corner. It's green cross, glowing softly in the 162 00:13:22.120 --> 00:13:27.480 evening light. It is a small building, white walls and 163 00:13:27.519 --> 00:13:31.120 a blue wanning, and through the window I can see 164 00:13:31.159 --> 00:13:36.399 the shelves lined with boxes and bottles, the counter where 165 00:13:36.399 --> 00:13:40.679 the pharmacist stands, the old man who always seems to 166 00:13:40.720 --> 00:13:44.360 be there. I cross the street to get a better look. 167 00:13:45.480 --> 00:13:50.159 The cross is electric, a quiet green that does not flicker, 168 00:13:51.120 --> 00:13:54.120 and it casts a faint glow on the sidewalk below. 169 00:13:55.159 --> 00:14:00.240 Inside the lights are bright, clinical, the kind of light 170 00:14:00.320 --> 00:14:03.960 that makes everything look clean and ordered. A woman is 171 00:14:04.000 --> 00:14:07.639 standing at the counter speaking to the pharmacist, her voice 172 00:14:07.679 --> 00:14:11.440 too low for me to hear. The window display is simple, 173 00:14:12.120 --> 00:14:15.919 a row of cough syrups, a stack of vitamins, a 174 00:14:15.960 --> 00:14:20.399 small basket of bandages. There is nothing fancy here now, 175 00:14:20.480 --> 00:14:23.759 not that catches the eye, just the ordinary things that 176 00:14:23.799 --> 00:14:27.879 people need, the small remedies for the small aches of living. 177 00:14:28.720 --> 00:14:32.720 I stand for a moment watching The pharmacist reaches for 178 00:14:32.759 --> 00:14:36.600 a bottle, fills a small bag, hands it across the counter. 179 00:14:37.440 --> 00:14:42.120 The woman takes it, pays thanks him, leaves. The door 180 00:14:42.240 --> 00:14:46.639 chimes as it opens and closes. The pharmacist returns to 181 00:14:46.720 --> 00:14:51.279 his spot behind the counter, to his book, to his waiting. 182 00:14:52.519 --> 00:14:56.240 There is a bench across the street, iron and wood, 183 00:14:56.679 --> 00:14:59.879 and I sit on it for a moment. The seat 184 00:15:00.120 --> 00:15:04.679 is cool, slightly damped from the earlier weather, and I 185 00:15:04.720 --> 00:15:08.919 can feel the moisture through my trousers. I do not mind. 186 00:15:10.080 --> 00:15:13.960 I am not in a hurry. The evening is still young, 187 00:15:14.639 --> 00:15:18.519 still soft, still holding the day in its gentle grip 188 00:15:20.039 --> 00:15:22.879 the old couple on a bench. Further along, where the 189 00:15:22.919 --> 00:15:26.600 street widens and the trees grow taller, there is a 190 00:15:26.639 --> 00:15:31.440 small park. It is nothing much, a rectangle of grass, 191 00:15:31.879 --> 00:15:36.159 a few benches, a rusted swing set, but it is enough. 192 00:15:37.159 --> 00:15:40.000 It is a place to stop, a place to sit, 193 00:15:41.000 --> 00:15:45.120 a place to watch the world go by. On the 194 00:15:45.240 --> 00:15:49.919 nearest bench, an old couple sits together. They are holding hands, 195 00:15:50.320 --> 00:15:53.799 their fingers interlaced, and they are looking out at the 196 00:15:53.840 --> 00:15:58.000 empty grass ahead of them. The woman has white hair 197 00:15:58.120 --> 00:16:00.919 pulled back in a bun, and he wears a cardigan 198 00:16:01.080 --> 00:16:05.360 despite the warmth. The man wears a hat, a fedora 199 00:16:05.440 --> 00:16:08.720 of some kind, and his hands are resting on his knees. 200 00:16:10.039 --> 00:16:16.000 I do not interrupt them. I walk past, slowly, quietly, 201 00:16:16.960 --> 00:16:20.840 the way one walks past something sacred. They do not 202 00:16:20.960 --> 00:16:24.759 look at me. They are lost in their own world, 203 00:16:25.120 --> 00:16:30.279 their own silence, their own long years together. There is 204 00:16:30.320 --> 00:16:34.639 a kind of communication in their stillness, a conversation that 205 00:16:34.720 --> 00:16:38.600 does not need words. I think of my own life, 206 00:16:38.799 --> 00:16:43.120 of the people I have loved, of the quiet moments 207 00:16:43.240 --> 00:16:47.159 I have shared with them. I think of hands held 208 00:16:47.200 --> 00:16:53.559 across tables, of shoulders touching on couches of the small 209 00:16:53.720 --> 00:16:58.039 intimacies that build a life. I do not feel lonely. 210 00:16:58.879 --> 00:17:04.880 I feel somehow accompanied. The street is full of these 211 00:17:04.920 --> 00:17:10.599 small portraits, these glimpses of lives being lived. The woman 212 00:17:10.759 --> 00:17:15.359 says something to the man. He laughs, a soft sound 213 00:17:15.440 --> 00:17:19.480 that carries across the grass. Then they are quiet again, 214 00:17:20.279 --> 00:17:22.960 and they watch the light change on the leaves of 215 00:17:23.000 --> 00:17:28.000 the oak tree above them. I keep walking the library. 216 00:17:28.920 --> 00:17:32.160 The library is closed now, but I stop at the 217 00:17:32.200 --> 00:17:38.000 window anyway. The building is old, stone faced, with tall 218 00:17:38.079 --> 00:17:44.039 windows that reflect the evening sky. Inside, the shelves are dark, 219 00:17:44.759 --> 00:17:50.319 the chairs empty, the circulation desk unattended. But through the 220 00:17:50.400 --> 00:17:53.720 glass I can still see the titles on the spines, 221 00:17:54.680 --> 00:17:58.759 still imagine the worlds they contain. There is a display 222 00:17:58.839 --> 00:18:05.319 near the entrance, new arrivals perhaps, or seasonal favorites. I 223 00:18:05.359 --> 00:18:08.720 press my face closer to the glass and read the spines. 224 00:18:09.400 --> 00:18:13.720 A novel red and gold, a book of poems, glue 225 00:18:13.799 --> 00:18:18.359 and worn, a history of something I do not recognize. 226 00:18:18.599 --> 00:18:23.079 A children's book, bright and illustrated, with a picture of 227 00:18:23.119 --> 00:18:27.480 a rabbit on the cover. I remember being young, being 228 00:18:27.559 --> 00:18:30.160 small enough to sit on the floor of a library 229 00:18:30.759 --> 00:18:34.359 and pull books from the lower shelves to open them 230 00:18:34.440 --> 00:18:38.319 and find worlds I had never imagined. I remember the 231 00:18:38.359 --> 00:18:44.680 smell of old pages, of dust and glue and time. 232 00:18:46.759 --> 00:18:50.039 I remember the feeling of being lost in a story, 233 00:18:51.359 --> 00:18:55.519 of forgetting where I was, of becoming some one else. 234 00:18:57.599 --> 00:19:01.519 The library door is locked, but the window is clean, 235 00:19:02.720 --> 00:19:07.000 and through it the evening light falls in long rectangles 236 00:19:07.039 --> 00:19:13.799 across the floor. I imagine the librarians, the quiet shushing 237 00:19:13.880 --> 00:19:19.160 of their footsteps, the stamps they press into cards, the 238 00:19:19.200 --> 00:19:26.000 small transactions of borrowing and returning. I imagine the readers, 239 00:19:26.960 --> 00:19:30.799 the students, the dreamers who come here to find what 240 00:19:30.880 --> 00:19:37.480 they need. I step back from the window. The street 241 00:19:37.680 --> 00:19:42.720 is quiet around me, the lamps now fully lit, the 242 00:19:42.759 --> 00:19:50.920 sky above deepening to purple. I keep walking the bus stop. 243 00:19:53.039 --> 00:19:56.799 There is a bus stop on the corner, a simple 244 00:19:56.839 --> 00:19:59.799 shelter with a bench and a schedule posted on the wall. 245 00:20:01.799 --> 00:20:04.519 I sit down on the bench and rest my feet. 246 00:20:06.000 --> 00:20:10.680 The seat is wooden, slightly rough, worn smooth by the 247 00:20:10.759 --> 00:20:14.759 years by the many people who have sat here waiting 248 00:20:14.799 --> 00:20:19.039 for a ride that is always coming, always almost there. 249 00:20:20.759 --> 00:20:24.359 The schedule is faded, the times difficult to read in 250 00:20:24.400 --> 00:20:28.079 the dim light. I do not need to read it. 251 00:20:29.400 --> 00:20:33.480 I am not waiting for a bus. I am simply sitting, 252 00:20:34.400 --> 00:20:39.559 simply resting, simply being here in the quiet of the evening. 253 00:20:41.279 --> 00:20:44.000 Across the street, a cat moves along the wall of 254 00:20:44.039 --> 00:20:48.160 a house, its shaped thin and dark against the white paint. 255 00:20:49.279 --> 00:20:53.839 It stops, looks at me, then continues on its way. 256 00:20:55.559 --> 00:20:59.880 It has somewhere to be, something to do. I wonder 257 00:21:00.279 --> 00:21:04.200 what it is looking for, what kind of night creature 258 00:21:04.279 --> 00:21:10.359 it is. A car passes, its head lights briefly illuminating 259 00:21:10.400 --> 00:21:16.000 the shelter, the bench, my hands resting on my knees. 260 00:21:17.559 --> 00:21:22.480 The driver does not slow. The car disappears around the corner, 261 00:21:23.400 --> 00:21:30.400 its engine fading into the distance. The silence returns. I 262 00:21:30.440 --> 00:21:34.319 think about the people who wait here, day after day, 263 00:21:35.279 --> 00:21:39.599 in fair weather and foul. I think about the journeys 264 00:21:39.640 --> 00:21:44.880 they are taking, the destinations they are reaching, the lives 265 00:21:44.920 --> 00:21:48.839 they are living. I think about the buses that come 266 00:21:48.880 --> 00:21:54.000 and go, the routes that circle the town, the connections 267 00:21:54.000 --> 00:21:59.319 that bind one place to another. After a while, I stand. 268 00:22:00.559 --> 00:22:04.680 My legs are rested, now, my body ready to move again. 269 00:22:05.920 --> 00:22:10.119 I leave the shelter and continue down the street, and 270 00:22:10.200 --> 00:22:17.000 behind me the bus stop waits, patient and still, A 271 00:22:17.119 --> 00:22:21.319 little wind. The wind comes up just as I reach 272 00:22:21.440 --> 00:22:26.359 the square. It is not much, just a gentle movement 273 00:22:26.440 --> 00:22:29.680 of air that brushes against my face and moves the 274 00:22:29.759 --> 00:22:33.640 leaves on the trees. It carries with it the smell 275 00:22:33.680 --> 00:22:40.200 of the evening, dust and stone and something green, something growing. 276 00:22:41.720 --> 00:22:45.880 I stop and let it pass over me. The wind 277 00:22:45.960 --> 00:22:49.599 is cool, not cold, and it feels good against my 278 00:22:49.720 --> 00:22:53.799 skin after the warmth of the day. I close my 279 00:22:53.880 --> 00:22:57.839 eyes for a moment and listen to it. It moves 280 00:22:57.920 --> 00:23:01.599 through the branches, it mustles the papers in the gutter. 281 00:23:02.599 --> 00:23:05.759 It carries the distant sound of someone closing a door. 282 00:23:06.440 --> 00:23:09.960 When I open my eyes, I see that the wind 283 00:23:10.039 --> 00:23:14.160 has stirred the curtains in an upstairs window. They are 284 00:23:14.200 --> 00:23:22.160 moving gently, waving in and out like hands waving goodbye. 285 00:23:22.400 --> 00:23:27.599 The window is dark, the room behind it empty, but 286 00:23:27.640 --> 00:23:33.000 the curtains are alive, are dancing, are keeping their own 287 00:23:33.119 --> 00:23:39.400 quiet company with the evening. I walk on. The wind 288 00:23:39.480 --> 00:23:44.720 follows for a while, then fades, then is gone. The 289 00:23:44.759 --> 00:23:49.400 air settles back into stillness, into that particular hush that 290 00:23:49.559 --> 00:23:55.680 comes just after a breeze has passed. The trees are still, now, 291 00:23:56.839 --> 00:24:01.279 their leaves holding the memory of movement, their branches swaying 292 00:24:01.319 --> 00:24:07.400 gently with the fading force. Ahead, a man is walking 293 00:24:07.440 --> 00:24:11.200 toward me. He is wearing a coat despite the warmth, 294 00:24:11.599 --> 00:24:14.960 and he is carrying a newspaper folded under his arm. 295 00:24:15.400 --> 00:24:19.440 He nods as we pass, a small greeting, the kind 296 00:24:19.480 --> 00:24:24.279 that strangers offer in small towns. I nod back. The 297 00:24:24.319 --> 00:24:29.160 street accepts us both the flower shop window. The flower 298 00:24:29.200 --> 00:24:33.000 shop is closed, but the window is still lit, still 299 00:24:33.039 --> 00:24:36.920 displaying the day's remaining blooms. I stop in front of 300 00:24:36.960 --> 00:24:41.880 it and look. There are roses, white and red and pink, 301 00:24:42.759 --> 00:24:47.680 their petals still tight, their stems still fresh. There are lilies, 302 00:24:48.200 --> 00:24:52.640 tall and pale, their smell faint but detectable through the glass. 303 00:24:53.480 --> 00:24:57.920 There are daisies, simple and bright, mixed in with greenery 304 00:24:57.960 --> 00:25:02.319 that I cannot name. The shop is dark behind the window, 305 00:25:03.119 --> 00:25:07.400 the register empty, the door lock, but the flowers remain, 306 00:25:09.200 --> 00:25:16.720 remain visible, remain the lovely in their quiet way. Some 307 00:25:16.839 --> 00:25:21.240 one arranged them this morning. Some one trimmed their stems 308 00:25:21.279 --> 00:25:25.440 and filled their buckets. Someone tended to them with care. 309 00:25:27.039 --> 00:25:31.000 Now they wait for the morning, for the customers who 310 00:25:31.000 --> 00:25:37.160 will come, for the bouquets that will be made. I 311 00:25:37.200 --> 00:25:41.880 think about the florist, the person who works here, who 312 00:25:41.920 --> 00:25:46.920 wakes early and tends to these delicate things. I think 313 00:25:46.960 --> 00:25:51.119 about the smell of the shop, the coolness of the air, 314 00:25:52.079 --> 00:25:57.000 the soft sound of water and buckets. I think about 315 00:25:57.039 --> 00:26:00.880 the people who buy flowers, the acay Asians that call 316 00:26:00.960 --> 00:26:08.359 for them berths and deaths, and weddings and apologies, the 317 00:26:08.400 --> 00:26:12.640 small ceremonies of life that we mark with color and scent. 318 00:26:14.599 --> 00:26:19.480 The window is clean, almost invisible, and through it the 319 00:26:19.559 --> 00:26:24.359 flowers seem to glow. The light inside the shop is soft, 320 00:26:25.119 --> 00:26:28.519 designed to show them at their best, and it does. 321 00:26:29.680 --> 00:26:36.440 They look peaceful, resting, waiting. I press my hand against 322 00:26:36.440 --> 00:26:40.319 the glass one more time, feel a coolness of it, 323 00:26:41.440 --> 00:26:45.160 then move on the calf with the light still on. 324 00:26:45.960 --> 00:26:47.839 There is a calf at the end of the block, 325 00:26:48.440 --> 00:26:52.359 and its light is still on. Through the window, I 326 00:26:52.400 --> 00:26:56.680 can see the tables, the chairs, the counter where the 327 00:26:56.839 --> 00:27:02.160 espresso machine sits, silent and clean. One table is occupied, 328 00:27:02.799 --> 00:27:05.839 a man reading a book, his face lit by the 329 00:27:05.920 --> 00:27:09.759 lamp above him, his coffee cup half empty beside him. 330 00:27:10.839 --> 00:27:14.440 I stand outside and watch. He does not see me. 331 00:27:17.400 --> 00:27:22.599 I was actually a past beginning. I had a clear 332 00:27:22.680 --> 00:27:25.480 ceased which was my cast for the age that A 333 00:27:25.519 --> 00:27:30.279 plain so much. I'm working that I was an important duck. 334 00:27:31.039 --> 00:27:34.839 I stand outside and watch. He does not see me. 335 00:27:35.599 --> 00:27:40.759 He is absorbed in his reading, his eyes moving across 336 00:27:40.839 --> 00:27:46.680 the page, his hand occasionally reaching for the cup. He 337 00:27:46.759 --> 00:27:53.480 turns a page, he takes a sip. He continues. The 338 00:27:53.519 --> 00:27:59.400 scene is ordinary, unremarkable, the kind of scene that happens 339 00:27:59.440 --> 00:28:05.880 in a thousand and calfs in a thousand towns. Inside 340 00:28:06.079 --> 00:28:11.720 the calf is warm, inviting. The walls are lined with 341 00:28:11.880 --> 00:28:17.880 shelves of cups and mugs, some for sale, some for display. 342 00:28:19.599 --> 00:28:24.359 There are paintings on the walls, small canvases of street 343 00:28:24.519 --> 00:28:29.920 scenes and still lifes, the work of local artists. Perhaps 344 00:28:31.799 --> 00:28:35.960 there is a chalkboard menu, the day's offerings, written in 345 00:28:36.119 --> 00:28:42.119 careful script. I think about going in. I think about 346 00:28:42.240 --> 00:28:47.960 ordering a tea, sitting at a table, watching the evening settle, 347 00:28:49.839 --> 00:28:54.000 But I do not move. I am content to stand here, 348 00:28:55.000 --> 00:28:58.920 to watch the man read, to imagine the taste of 349 00:28:58.960 --> 00:29:04.079 the coffee he is. Sometimes it is enough just to observe, 350 00:29:05.359 --> 00:29:08.240 just to let the world happen without being part of it. 351 00:29:09.680 --> 00:29:14.519 The man looks up, glances out the window, sees me 352 00:29:14.680 --> 00:29:19.519 standing there. He does not wave, he does not frown. 353 00:29:20.640 --> 00:29:26.440 He simply looks, then returns to his book. The calf 354 00:29:26.519 --> 00:29:30.200 is a world unto itself, and I am outside it 355 00:29:31.039 --> 00:29:39.519 looking in. She walks with a cane, or perhaps it 356 00:29:39.640 --> 00:29:43.799 is a walking stick. The distinction is hard to make 357 00:29:43.839 --> 00:29:49.400 from behind, and it doesn't matter. What matters is the 358 00:29:49.480 --> 00:29:55.680 rhythm of her steps, the slow and deliberate cadence of 359 00:29:55.720 --> 00:30:00.640 someone who has learned to take her time, not quicken 360 00:30:00.680 --> 00:30:04.519 my pace to catch her. I do not slow to 361 00:30:04.640 --> 00:30:10.240 let her pull ahead. I simply walk and she walks, 362 00:30:11.319 --> 00:30:14.039 and for a block or more we share the sidewalk, 363 00:30:14.279 --> 00:30:20.279 the way two strangers sometimes do, neither speaking, both moving 364 00:30:20.440 --> 00:30:25.079 in the same direction at the same speed, as though 365 00:30:25.079 --> 00:30:30.079 we have agreed on something without discussing it. Her coat 366 00:30:30.160 --> 00:30:36.319 is dark, her shoes are black. There's a small bag 367 00:30:36.440 --> 00:30:39.720 hanging from her arm, the kind with a clasp that 368 00:30:39.799 --> 00:30:45.519 clicks when it opens. I cannot see what is inside. 369 00:30:45.680 --> 00:30:49.640 I don't try to look. The street is quiet enough 370 00:30:49.680 --> 00:30:51.519 that I can hear the tap of her stick on 371 00:30:51.559 --> 00:30:56.119 the pavement, the soft scuff of her shoes, and beneath 372 00:30:56.200 --> 00:31:01.200 that the sound of my own footsteps. Beneath that the 373 00:31:01.279 --> 00:31:04.279 distant hum of a world that is still awake, somewhere 374 00:31:04.319 --> 00:31:10.960 beyond the houses. At the next corner, she stops. She 375 00:31:11.039 --> 00:31:16.000 does not look back. She turns left toward a narrow 376 00:31:16.039 --> 00:31:20.240 doorway being a baker's and a shuddered news stand, and 377 00:31:20.279 --> 00:31:25.359 I watch her disappear. Inside. The doorway is painted red, 378 00:31:26.000 --> 00:31:29.119 or was once, and the paint is peeling near the 379 00:31:29.160 --> 00:31:32.319 top in thin strips that curl like the pages of 380 00:31:32.359 --> 00:31:36.880 an old book. There is a light above the door, 381 00:31:36.920 --> 00:31:41.480 a small yellow bulb in a wire cage, and as 382 00:31:41.480 --> 00:31:45.960 she steps inside, it flickers on, casting a square of 383 00:31:46.000 --> 00:31:50.880 gold onto the sidewalk. I stand there a moment longer. 384 00:31:52.599 --> 00:31:56.240 The light behind the curtain of the upstairs window comes on, next, 385 00:31:57.799 --> 00:32:01.079 a soft glow that pushes through the and makes the 386 00:32:01.119 --> 00:32:07.440 window into something warm, something alive. Then I walk on 387 00:32:08.920 --> 00:32:13.480 the street continues past the red doorway, past the baker's 388 00:32:13.559 --> 00:32:17.759 and the news stand, and I walk with it, and 389 00:32:17.839 --> 00:32:22.039 nothing is different, and everything is different, And the woman 390 00:32:22.079 --> 00:32:24.400 with the white hair is gone from the street, now 391 00:32:25.440 --> 00:32:30.279 gone into her house, into her evening, and I am 392 00:32:30.319 --> 00:32:35.599 still here, still walking, still listening to the sound of 393 00:32:35.640 --> 00:32:40.799 my own feet on the pavement. A bench with a 394 00:32:40.880 --> 00:32:44.960 dedication plague. There is a bench at the edge of 395 00:32:45.000 --> 00:32:49.240 the small park, where the sidewalk turns to gravel, and 396 00:32:49.279 --> 00:32:52.599 the trees grow close enough together that their branches almost 397 00:32:52.640 --> 00:32:58.599 touch overhead. I sit down. The wood is cool beneath me, 398 00:32:59.640 --> 00:33:03.480 damp from an earlier weather that has since passed, and 399 00:33:03.559 --> 00:33:07.079 I sit there for a while without moving, looking at 400 00:33:07.079 --> 00:33:10.640 what the park holds in front of me. The grass 401 00:33:10.680 --> 00:33:14.480