I opened the door to find my neighbor Emlyn parked there in his wheelchair. We’d always visited in the courtyard, at the mailboxes, in the parking lot, the laundry room—wherever our paths chanced to meet. But he’d never knocked on our door before.
At that point, a lady entered the door, looked my way and picked up her pace, darting straight toward the teller and leaving me in the dust to contemplate the fate of mankind, should such acts of incivility prevail around the world.
Big, jagged pieces of concrete and old hunks pavement ground their bones deep into the mud. While they held the creek bed from eroding away, painfully absent were the smooth stones that grace lovely mountain streams and clear running brooks in far-off places–the kind of streams that parks are built around and people hike to and strip off their socks for–to place weary feet on, to caress their soles against smooth, lovely stones—allowing the tensions of hard, heavy lives to be cooled and released–carried off by a swift-moving current to places far, far away.