Standing on the sidewalk waiting to cross, the blind man listens. An intersection or a river’s rapids, the man knows not but recognizes the sound of danger, a familiar note played throughout ones life, the guiding light of decision.
He is tired and wants to be home.
He hears a man approach and latches on to his arm. His eyes are the eyes of eyes no longer working, broken blues and whites that bleed together, broken yokes. He needs not explain why he's latched on to the approaching arm, one look and he would know.
The cars move past unaware in their importance of the blind man, waiting.
“Terrible, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
They haven’t much to talk about, knowing the small rolls they play in each others lives, or moment. It’s more of a moment then a life, he thinks, but then what’s the difference.
“Shall we walk?”
They move out slowly, making way across the road, the river, cars flooding the tributaries of concrete like fish once had, an imitation of nature lost. He was grateful for this new found friend. People weren’t so quick to offer their hands to help these days, they had grown cruel, cold and quiet.
“It’s so dangerous."
“Isn’t it?”
Arm in arm, the two step up to the sidewalk, smiling at one another. The sound of the street starting up again. Cars move past, the screach and scream of tires and cement, a young child crying from an apartment complex down the street. The wind of the cities movement stirs up dust which floats about, clinging to the fabric of their pants.
Then they thanked one another. They shook hands and returned back to their lives, happy that theirs had momentarily intersected, at the intersection.
The blind took a step then stopped, listening for a moment to the scrape of a sight stick scratching its way down the sidewalk.
He is tired and wants to be home.
He hears a man approach and latches on to his arm. His eyes are the eyes of eyes no longer working, broken blues and whites that bleed together, broken yokes. He needs not explain why he's latched on to the approaching arm, one look and he would know.
The cars move past unaware in their importance of the blind man, waiting.
“Terrible, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
They haven’t much to talk about, knowing the small rolls they play in each others lives, or moment. It’s more of a moment then a life, he thinks, but then what’s the difference.
“Shall we walk?”
They move out slowly, making way across the road, the river, cars flooding the tributaries of concrete like fish once had, an imitation of nature lost. He was grateful for this new found friend. People weren’t so quick to offer their hands to help these days, they had grown cruel, cold and quiet.
“It’s so dangerous."
“Isn’t it?”
Arm in arm, the two step up to the sidewalk, smiling at one another. The sound of the street starting up again. Cars move past, the screach and scream of tires and cement, a young child crying from an apartment complex down the street. The wind of the cities movement stirs up dust which floats about, clinging to the fabric of their pants.
Then they thanked one another. They shook hands and returned back to their lives, happy that theirs had momentarily intersected, at the intersection.
The blind took a step then stopped, listening for a moment to the scrape of a sight stick scratching its way down the sidewalk.
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