The Man with the Hat, Coat and Cane

There he is again, plodding along in slow, steady steps, making his way up my street. It is cold today. I can see his breath, a hazy cloud puff. His head is covered in a thick fur hat, the kind old men in Moscow wear when it snows. His hair underneath is wispy, grayish-white. His coat is long and dusty and brown and full. It looks warm. He clutches his cane with a glove-covered hand, moving it in sync with his steps. He doesn’t lean on it much; he steadies himself just fine.

He is tall and lean and delicately strong, like the limb of a large oak tree. His face is kind, his long life deeply etched in it. He has a perfect profile—a fine, pointed nose, deep set eyes. His mouth is a thin line drawn straight across—pensive, serious. He is proud, but not overly so. He nods as he approaches. Sometimes he faintly smiles.

There was a time long ago when his steps were shaky, hesitant, when he walked arm-in-arm with a younger man—his son I supposed—at his side. He is better now. He walks alone. He makes his way around the block just fine.

Sometimes I see him from my living room window, rounding the corner, ambling up the road close, closer. Other times I glimpse a hat and coat and cane in my rearview mirror as I back slowly, carefully, out my driveway. I wonder how long he’s been walking, how much further he plans to go. I wonder what he’s thinking as he moves so steadily along. I watch and wonder some more as he turns the corner and disappears around the bend.

And I know it won’t be long—a day or two, a week at most—before I’ll see him again, plodding along in slow, steady steps, making his way up my street.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com February, 2006)