17 And His Footprints Are Lost in the Snow Kara Sinar The sky was a peculiar shade of grey—almost blue, but not quite light enough to be beautiful. There was a mercurial breeze that served to whip around the last of the autumnal foliage, blowing a small collection of golden leaves through Centennial Park. There was a man seated at a bench on the right side of the park, in a soft grey coat with a hole in the left pocket and a crooked black cap. His eyes had a glazed-over quality as they focused on the pavement in front of him. He was staring so intently, but it was clear to even a casual observer that the sidewalk was not his true object of study. He let out a breath (shakier than he had thought), and unwrapped a red plaid scarf from around his neck, crumpling it between his hands. He studied those hands, turning and flexing them. His fingers were crooked, and long, indigo veins snaked their way beneath his wrinkling flesh—stretched around fragile bones: hollow, like those of a bird. These were the hands of an old man and he struggled to recognize them as his own. There was a smooth, military-straight scar along his left wrist from the surgery. When had he had that done? He could have sworn that it was still on his to-do list. “I should call my doctor about that.” He had just been to the doctor, though. His carpal tunnel had been taken care of years ago, so he must have gone for something else. What was it? He furrowed his eyebrows as he pursed his lips. He couldn’t remember. He folded the scarf neatly and picked up his coffee to place the garment underneath—for the wind. He always took his coffee black with two sugars. He was about to raise the cheap, styrofoam to-go cup to his lips when a young couple walked past with their two dogs. A Bernese Mountain Dog and a Scottish Terrier walked side-by-side, making for quite the odd pair. Beautiful dogs, though. The shadows on the sidewalk had deepened, and the wind suddenly felt colder. There was a murky, blue aspect to the light now. The old man squinted to look up at the sky, gradually opening his eyes as he perceived that the grey had intensified, hiding the feeble rays of sunshine that just barely had strength to be seen. “A bit unseasonable for fall.” He leaned forward (his lower back protesting) and watched as the dogs moved past, the terrier bouncing comically as he discovered a delightfully asymmetrical stick at the edge of the sidewalk. He and Emmeline had had a dog—an Irish Setter named Lucy—the sweetest dog in the world. She could do any number of tricks and walked so well without her leash. She would ask permission to come up on the couch, and Emmeline couldn’t help but indulge her. Soon, she had migrated to the bed, leaving a trail of fine, copper hairs in her wake. She had invaded their space in the best way possible, trading snuggles for snacks as she listened intently with her head in her lap when Emmeline would vent about her day.
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