Crying

Down the hill from my house is a walking path that circles an enormous fountain that ejaculates into an unassuming pond. A sign says 3 laps around = 1 mile. There are benches scattered along the way, a wooden dock, and a raised flower bed with shade-loving plants under a group of oak trees. I walk this pathway often—almost always at dusk—with my iPod singing in my ears and a pair of Old Navy flip flops on my size 10 feet. I can do eleven or twelve laps around—easy—with me and my music. Me and my dreams.

Tonight my thumb circles the flat white disc of my iPod, and there is Roy Orbison. I’m walking...

I notice that the pond has turned the color of a gray-black Tahitian pearl. And Roy Orbison sings, "I was all right…for a while..." Just beyond the water, the leaves on a cluster of trees are haloed by a heroic sun.

It’s not until the second time I play that song that I have to sit down. Sit down on the wooden dock overlooking the quiet water. And sob. Pull my knees to my chin and give in… An older woman in new white sneakers stops. You alright? she asks, a voice in the dusk.

How do I say all that I want to say to this stranger tonight? It’s beautiful, I tell her, waving my arm to take in the water, the fountain, the leaves. But it’s also very sad.

She nods and reaches down to touch my hand. All her living, her troubles, collected in the age spots sprinkled there. I know, she says quietly. I know…

And she steps back onto the trail, and I watch her walk off into the distance, her grayish-white curls lifted to the last of the sun. A stranger stopped to comfort me tonight by the water, with Roy Orbison crying in my ears.

***