Tempus Fugit

Last night while jogging I wandered upon an older man, leaning onto a fence post for support.

He had a plastic bag in one hand but was using both to steady himself, completely motionless as I ran past.

Motionless, that is, except for his eyes.

His eyes looked up at me, their bright blue making contact with my blue-green (I looked over at him, concerned that perhaps something was wrong).

But I kept running all the same, making my way further and further from the lake until midway down the block I stopped. Turned.

And saw that he still hadn't moved.

So I made out that I was tired, and needed a break. Walked to a nearby newspaper stand and read the headlines, wondering if I should go back and ask him that age-old (no pun intended) question that could easily offend anyone with silver hair and an arched back.

"Are you all right?"

I ran over various permutations in my head, trying to determine the most inconspicuous way to determine whether or not I was, in fact, OK to continue on.

All the while hoping, of course, that he'd show some sign of life — even if only by changing that blank, terrified expression upon his face.

But, still, he didn't move.

So I walked back to him, relieved when he shuffled his feet — first his left, and then his right — and eased his right hand along the metal post.

He was walking again, ever so slowly.

And towards one of many nursing homes along the street. I go past many such "rehabilitative" centers on this route, in fact, and it's not entirely uncommon to see old women with walkers making their way to the lake front, or even men in their 40s to stare down at me — sometimes calling for my name, as they did last night — as I run past the neighborhood halfway house (the porch of which is encased in bars).

The one thing all of these people have in common — regardless of age, and regardless of gender or disability — is their solitude.

The people on the porch, for example, generally exist in groups. But they sit alone, never talking amongst themselves. Just shouting random words at passersby, or nodding quietly to the voice in their head.

And then there was this man, too, probably in his late 70s or early 80s. Either exhausted or disoriented or both, but trying nevertheless to make a go at things. I wondered if perhaps making it all the way to the corner might have been a tremendous feat, and part of me was ashamed to have even stopped — out of fear that he may have noticed my hesitation to continue on, and understood why.

I didn't want to embarrass him.

I imagined that once upon a time he may have been married. Happy, virile and strong. Successful in his career (was he a laborer? a writer? a poet? did he have a desk job?). And above all other things: proud.

As I resumed my jog, and pushed play on my iPod, and those melancholy tunes filtered in, I saw this old man become decades younger. Saw his hair turn from silver to black; saw him stand straight up and join me, jogging along busy city streets.

And then, as suddenly as the whole thing began,

He was old again. And I was, too, my knees stiff and my hair gray. I couldn't move and my lungs ached to breathe.

And cars were zooming all around me. People were laughing and shouting and crying and swirling and I couldn't hear myself think. I didn't know where I was, and all I needed — dear God, all I need — is to understand where I was going. Where I belong.

I was scared, and confused, and above all other things:

Alone.