A woman I’ve never met walks by my house each and every day.
This in and of itself is not extraordinary. But her constancy is.
Every day, at the same time, she walks, backpack on her back. Both straps fastened, limping. Hat and sunglasses on, even on cloudy days.
In the summer, she walks with purpose, as if determined her limp will not slow her down. In the winter, gingerly, with deliberation, so as not to fall.
And every day, like clockwork, a man meets her. A man walking two large dogs—mutts–who greet her as if she is Jesus Christ come to save them.
The man, too, lights up when he sees her, in a quiet, calm way.
She seems to be the center of this trio’s universe.
I am amazed at the synchronized timing of this group. What is it that she does, that she can with such surety be in front of my house at the same time, every day, give or take only a minute or two? And how does he manage to get to almost the same spot on the block to meet her every single time?
I marvel at this ability to plot life so dependably. Perhaps when I am their advanced age, I, too, will be able to count on doing one thing and only one thing at a time reliably and well; multitasking be damned.
What I love is the quiet joy and constancy that shines from this group as they greet each other. They seem to realize their days are numbered. That showing up for each other, day in and day out, matters.
Perhaps I read too much into the scene. But I doubt it.
I have the mutt. I hope when I walk with legs that have seen many more years, I also have the other faithful human companion.
Quiet joy and constancy are so very underrated, after all.
We should all get such a welcome.