When I grew up, there was an old man. This is how I phrase it, because he was a constant. He was always old, and he was always there. Each and every day on my way home from school, I would pass this old man. He would walk the same route, wear the same clothes, buy the same newspaper in the same convenience store, and grumble the same complaints about kids of today.
He was probably lonely. He was probably clinging to this routine, which gave him an excuse to come outside, to see people, to feel the sun on his face, to exchange a few polite words with the same cashier. For all his complaining, this routine never changed.
From kindergarten through junior high, I attended the same school. I walked the same road to school. I saw the same man. In my mind, he never aged. I don’t remember him younger than he was at any present moment.
Then I went to a high school in the city, and I saw the man less often. Then I moved away to college, and forgot about him.
I had not seen the old man with his newspaper for ten years. Not until today. He doesn’t look a day older than I last remember. He still walks with his slow, dragging gait. Still carries the same newspaper. Still nags and complains about kids today.
It is comforting to know that some routines never change. It is also a little unsettling. I’ve moved to another country, on another continent, yet there he was. In awe of the massive coincidence, I brought the man up as I Skyped with my mother, in a ‘you wouldn’t believe who I just saw’ kind of way.
Then she told me who the man was. I’d never mentioned him to her before this moment. I had simply assumed everyone in my neighborhood knew, had observed the repetitive behavior of this man.
Turns out he was her grandfather’s brother. Turns out he died twenty years ago.
It is still comforting, I guess, to know that some routines never change.
