At 85

The white-bearded Sikh pulled his grandson in a long plastic car along the sidewalk. He considered the neighborhood as the red car thunked along. Some day maybe the boy would remember him and this walk after supper. The wind was on the man’s face and the sun behind him cast an oversized blue shadow ahead of him. They passed a fountain splashing for no one in particular and he wondered at the tossed cigarettes in the sidewalk cracks as they went. The sound of wind chimes tinkling somewhere recalled his youth in a crowded village where he had been most happy so long ago. He had lived to see another spring and proudly pulled the boy who sprawled across his seat sideways. And he was pleased once more to smell the May tree in bloom as they passed under it slowly and came to a stop, his grandson wondering why. This, he thought, he would do again tomorrow, returning by himself to savour, alone, the brief sweet flower smell on his daily stroll.