An open letter to the old man married to his garden,
Every time I pass by I always see you nursing you garden, face down, wading slowly in that small healthy garden of yours. My guess is always you do this each day because of the way you might treat everything or everyone around you — careful, considering, with patience. Could this be a result of the long hours you spent at work before retiring? That is largely how I see it.
And yet as I pass by I always greet you. You respond. Our conversation ends as soon as it starts, its uncomfortable at times, knowing there might be more to it that the hellos and the “will you start your own garden”s. And when you finally get the chance to make your paces more than just a stroll down the small green covered spaces, I immediately recognise your step from miles away.
Maybe I should keep minding my own business, or maybe I should finally gather myself to start a meaningful talk. I don’t know, maybe one of these days I will.