Still He Does Not Move

A street corner in San Francisco

He stood at the edge of the crosswalk as if a ghost held him from crossing. Maybe it was her.

The light changed. The street cleared. He did not move. Groceries sagged from his hand. The city blurred behind him, a cable car sliding past like something remembered rather than seen.

Still he does not move.

Perhaps he was back in 1957. Their favorite soda shop. Chrome and sugar in the air. Her hand folded into his. Talk of California wide and waiting. They were young enough to believe the horizon would keep its promises.

Still he does not move.

They built a life here. A narrow house with creaking floors. Two children. Supper at the table most nights. Arguments that flared and faded. Laughter that lingered longer than either of them expected. She read in the evenings beneath a yellow lamp. He watched her without saying so.

Still he does not move.

Now he brings flowers. A folding chair. A thermos of coffee. A worn copy of Middlemarch, her favorite. He reads about grief in the chill hours of morning twilight. About sorrow no longer wrestled with but seated beside, a lasting companion.

Still he does not move.

The children tell him to come to Texas. To be closer to them. To let someone else worry about the small things. They have a guest house on the property. Winters are softer there. The doctors are good.

Still he does not move.

The light changes again. Someone brushes past him. The groceries grow heavier in his hand. California is no longer wide and waiting. It is beneath his feet now. It is where she is.

Still he does not move.