And trailing behind us were two women, one young, the other middle-aged. They were in conversation and occasionally, when the dog idled, some of their words would come into focus.

“It was like everything I thought was real wasn’t, and I was sure I was crazy.”

“Well, they said I would have remained hospitalized but for that one thing.”

“I will never forget the look on his face when I opened the door and saw what was happening.”

“I can’t’ describe to you how sad I’ve been.”

The older woman, attentive and silent, was a witness. She was looking right into the still shocked eyes of her companion, determined to walk with her and listen for as long as it took– the movement bringing the story to the surface and freeing it, if only for a moment.

Further along a little boy held a pile of leaves and twigs in his hands, declaring to his father– who sat on a bench in front of a coffee shop– ” Making a nest is hard!” The father became a necessary expert, “Yes, it is, but birds are very good at it!” His wife, beautifully sunlit and scarved, rolled her eyes and smiled, “Your father’s nickname in college was The Birdman, did you know that, Alistair? He was famous for his nests!”

A middle-aged, maximally bearded man wearing a sweatshirt with something accidental on it, jogged along. He had an easy gait and appeared naturally athletic, but as he loped closer to us and then past, I could see that his smile was wild and uncontrollable and he was muttering to himself. His clothes filthy, he clutched a beaten five dollar bill in his long, thin fingers, and ran straight to the liquor store.

On our way home the dog bounced through the leaves, and an elderly woman in a wheelchair, still wearing a poppy on her blazers, smiled at us, “She looks so happy!” she said. I shouted back that it was a beautiful day, and the woman nodded crisply, “I will grant you that,” she said, before gearing her chair forward and buzzing across the street.

* (Photo of leaves courtesy of Debra Lary)