infirm

The sun is already a half hour below the horizon. The sky’s pale blue has been replaced by blackness. The streetlights are spaced about one to a block and form yellow hazy patches on the ground beneath them. Patches of darkness and black shadows try to infiltrate those patches. The street is bare, only just recently finished after months of construction. Most of the traffic still avoids it because drivers are unaware of its completion.

The air is chilled, but still a few weeks from frigid. Leaves are scattered under shrubs and large trees and all over the sidewalk. They shatter between my shoes and the concrete. The cool wind blows lightly against my exposed cheeks. The music in my headphones drowns out the hum of metropolitan noise. I’m far from downtown and I’ve already walked a half-mile from the main traffic route, but it’s there.

I continue walking, an even stride, consumed in the music, and my thoughts drift. It smells like cold mud, or stacks of fresh sod after a frost. It smells slightly of decay, a cool mustiness that reminds me of my grandmother’s basement. I pass the rows of construction barricades, the orange flashing lights blinking in coordination with one another. There are plastic, reflector-trap wrapped orange barrels and large road closure signs stowed at the side of two of the streets.

After passing the brightly lit main intersection, it seems darker still. The only light comes from the streetlights and the dim glow of lights inside the houses I pass. Up ahead, about a quarter mile, a figure appears to be standing still on the sidewalk. If it’s moving—I can’t tell from this distance—it’s moving very slowly. It’s between two streetlights, making it harder to see. It’s probably someone waiting for his or her dog. Waiting to grab hold of the leavings through a plastic bag and walk back to the warmth of a nearby house.

I’m gaining on the figure. I can’t tell if it’s walking in the direction I am, or just very slowly in the opposite. With the dim light, I can’t be sure if it’s a man or a woman. I can see that his or her walking is hitched. It’s slow, with short steps. He or she is pushing something. It looks to be a small cart. A car approaches from behind me. Its headlights spray light ahead of me. My shadow darkens and I can see the back of the figure.

His hair is disheveled, going in every direction and he wears a flannel shirt, far too thin for the temperature of the night. I’m within a few blocks now. His pace is arduously slow, only a few inches with each step, and appears painful. His shoulders are uneven, the left dipping about four inches lower and his back is curved to accommodate. The only sound is the light scraping of his Velcro shoes against the pavement and the rhythmic squeaking of his cart’s tires.

It feels colder. His halted gait forces a sense of unease. My mind wanders to the empty stares from wheelchairs parked in the lobby of every retirement community I’ve ever been in. I used to move furniture into and out of places like this. The air is stale, sanitary, and smells manufactured. The carpet is too clean, the hall too quiet, and there is ominously still. The nurses are friendly, but guarded. Security and office help are disgruntled and aggressive. I can feel the boredom; the feeling of waiting for the end is almost tactile.

I can feel the sidewalk under my feet, then the asphalt as I cross another street, but I’m not there. I can see the faces of the almost-dead men and women as they watch me roll furniture past them. The excitement of a new neighbor or the mild mourning of another, soon to be forgotten, partner in cards, are glints in their otherwise prosaic eyes. Their flesh, worn and stretched on their frames, drapes over their deteriorated joints and musculature.

The man is only a few feet ahead now and approaching a patch of yellow light from a streetlight close by. His hair is only slightly grayed, but greasy and unkempt. The cart holds groceries, about what would fit in two paper bags. I cut left a few feet to pass him quickly. I realize my heart is racing and I’m breathing quickly. Though unintentional, I have this reaction often when around the men or women like him. I have no reason to feel this way, but it’s as if their helplessness overwhelms me.

He is just a man, a very old man, who likely goes about his day with great difficulty. It will be decades before I will reach a similar point. He’s probably knowledgeable and friendly, but his pace and failing body make me uneasy. I still see the lobby filled with old men and women. Assisted living communities make me exceedingly uncomfortable. The thought of being so reliant turns my stomach. The unease of walking into those sterile buildings filters through my body as I step past him on the grass.

It’s irrational to fear death or attack or accidents or other events either against all odds or definitively certain. It’s irrational to fear age and the failing of one’s body as well, but I still do. I see the twilight of my twilight in the feeble eyes of those in wheelchairs. I taste the stale air and smell the musty medical surrounding as I pass this man.

Probably, it took him hours to go to and return from the grocery store. I could stop and help, but I don’t know what assistance I could offer. I’m past him now. I can’t hear the scraping of his soles and my heart is beating at a normal rate. By the time I enter my room the thought of him has almost faded, but for the images of imaginary women and men, sitting in their white rooms, watching me place their furniture, which just hours before was extracted from their homes, in the last room they will likely occupy. Those images don’t fade for another hour or so.