I was expecting you, but not so early in the day.
I saw you walk up to my neighbor Fred's house last week while I was out getting the newspaper, once again tossed into the bushes by a careless newspaper boy. Today, it's the usual routine of rising at dawn, fetching the paper from the bushes -- where else? -- and settling into my comfy, tattered wing back with the first of several cups of coffee. Feeling out of sorts lately, I dig into the news, bad as it always is, to take my mind off myself and those niggling worries that tend to skewer my body and brain and then hang me out to dry all twisted and messed up inside.
From recent conversations with Fred, I knew he was on a downward slide both mentally and physically. He was resigned that he'd be seeing you soon -- in a sense relieved that you'd be making a call. After the two of you left Fred's house, there was a lot of wailing going on inside. Yet, I was happy for him. I'll sure miss Fred -- he was a good man.
My mind is back to the news after my bittersweet reminiscing, and the gradual brightening of a new day is, somehow, reversed; the clock appears to set itself back as my doorstep darkens. Baffled, but with a certain expectation, I rise from my chair and move toward the front door. It is you, Fred's visitor from last week. Normally, a person would expect you to be dressed in black and pulling a long and somber face. No, a smiling and gentle face, an unspoken assurance that all is well and forever shall be.
As I walk out my door, I glance back and see myself asleep in the old, tattered wing back. I leave the old and familiar as the sun rises on a new and promising day . . .
Good to see you, Fred.