I’d been on this trail hundreds of times in my life. It remains one of my favorite places to be. It’s meditative. It’s peaceful. It refreshes my soul.
As had happened so many times before, I passed an old man walking with his dog. He always went in the opposite direction. It would take him mostly on a decline rather than upward, and was generally a bit easier to finish. We’d always say our good mornings, as his happy dog would quickly sniff me out before deciding the birds were a much more enjoyable prey.
Today, though, something was missing. I noticed it right away as he approached. His dog was much closer to him than was ordinarily the case, and he wasn’t walking with his normal gait. It was like someone had placed a heavy weight on him, and he was having a hard time walking with it.
He was wearing dark sunglasses, unusual for him as I knew him on this trail. He wore the same hat I’d always seen him in, but it didn’t look the same. His hair seemed disheveled beneath it. It seemed today he wore that hat not to protect his head from the Sun, but to hide the mess underneath it from the world. I took all of that in as I realized the most important thing that was missing in this scene.
She was not with him.
She was always the first one to say “good morning”. Her smile was easily seen from a distance, and the cadence of her footfalls always seemed to be one he would try to match. They were always talking and laughing as they walked, and her morning greeting seemed to be a signal to him that he should share in her kindness. She seemed to uplift him, and give him a certain lightness, and he seemed to be a satellite to her, his star.
“Good morning, sir,” I said a bit earlier than normal. He sighed, and mumbled a “good morning” barely audible in reply.
“How are you?” I asked.
“You don’t want to know,” he said. I’m sure he believed it to be true. Most don’t ask that question truly wanting an honest reply.
“Sure I do. Is everything ok?”
I could feel his sadness begin. It was like the early stages of a tsunami, the energy around him receding as the power of his torment seemed to build. I braced for what was about to come.
“My wife died last week. We’d been married for over 50 years, and walked here almost every day of those 50 years. This is the first time I’ve been here since she died.”
“Oh,” I replied, “I’m so sorry. Are you ok?”
“I’m doing the best I can, considering. We had never spent much time apart, so this is all new to me. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to dump on you like this.”
“Please. I’m here. We are all in this together, my friend. You were blessed to have each other. She may not be with you physically right now, but I will bet anything that she’s with you where it matters most.”
I could see a tear spill past his dark sunglasses. I was sure it was not the only one that had followed a trail down his cheek. The dog came and sat near him, and I couldn’t help but wonder if she was following some command no one else could hear.
He looked down at her. “I still got Pearl,” he said. My heart responded silently, “And she still has you.”
“Well, I have to go,” said the old man by the lake. Maybe I’ll see you next time. Have a great day.”
“I hope so. You too. Maybe I’ll walk your direction some day. I’ve never done it.”
“Try it sometime. You may like it,” he said as he took his first step, a note of humor in his voice. Pearl took the lead, forcing him to pick up his gait a bit. The sounds of the small stones crunching under his feet heard no echo on this walk, but I doubt he noticed. I’d bet he was busy having a very intense conversation in his heart with a part of it he so desperately wanted to hear reply.
I turned and went back to the meditative way I usually walk this path when on my own. The sounds of the stone crunching under my feet have a certain rhythm to them, often giving me a vibe that has me completely in tune and in love with everything around me. It seemed, to me, that no one is truly ever gone from our lives, that the feelings inspired by both their physical and emotional presence last our entire lives. We are inspired by reminders, and our ability to remember (rejoin) with them.
The energy of the stones crunching as I walk reminds me. The way the Sun looks caressing the lake reminds me. The relationship I saw between the old man and his wife reminded me. The loss he felt reminded me. The blessing of love he shared reminded me. I may often walk this path alone, but I am not ever truly alone.