Now with mending ankle I too cross
the gravel as though walking in minnows,
remembering too well the pain,
the nausea when the ankle turned out.
You don't walk slowly because you're old
but because you hurt. You walk slowly
until you're ready to say I want to go home
and die.

I thought he was gone,
but now I see his stooped, massive shoulders
on the horizon.
I'm catching up,
terrified alert, appreciating
the solid step of my good foot.