To the Old Man Gardening During the Pandemic
It is April 1, 2020
This is no joke, though
It’s late morning
I am walking for the ninth day in a row
You are sitting on a yellow bucket
sleeveless black puffer jacket
dark button-down work shirt
brown pants
and a black flat cap on your head
The lines on your face shows the years like a tree stump
The trowel in your hand moves slowly
clearing away dead leaves
turning up soil
A few purple tulips dot the garden
By summer your garden will be in full color
but for now
there is work to be done
We nod hello, quickly
I’ve got earbuds in
and a black hoodie on
I don’t know your age
but you are old enough to have gone through the Great Depression
two world wars
Black Monday
9/11
And now this moment in history
As I turn the corner
heading home
I wonder how many times you’ve seen the sky fall?
How did you deal with each fear?
What losses did you endure?
I do not resist the urge to look back
You are moving the yellow bucket a few feet to the left
bending down you clear more dead debris
working the top soil for the flowers to come
I smile
as I consider how much of your old world
is just the same as this new world
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