"i want to walk"

said the old man.

he was almost 80, bow-legged, hunched over and ridden with arthritis. his hair was thin and cropped short. but it was surprisingly firm and stood up almost straight, and you could see the blemishes that slowly invaded the skin of people his age on his scalp through it. he had lost his last tooth back in 1998, having just turned 75, and now sometimes still finds it difficult to adjust to this, one of many, notable change in his anatomy. not that it mattered much. porridge and oatmeal doesn't often require chewing. if only his jaw didn't slack when he wasn't paying attention and, compounded with his toothlessness, didn't make him look surprised all the time.

his skin was bronzed and weathered. his hands seemed gritty and rough and only so because it had been a long time since he had let go of his walking cane, or raised his arms and turned his palms out like he used to when he was standing along the sidewalk, and because no one had shook his hands for as far back as he could remember. indeed, his hands had worked hard; but now they barely do enough to help him stand up from sitting down. and his fingers. they were long and thick and evidenced a hard life and it was almost unbecoming, almost sinful, that they've degenerated the way they have and called attention to their weary selves whenever he needed to muster any kind of strength.

his eyes were sad, albeit surprised, and would flash rare glimpses of lucidity if only you had took the time to carefully study them for a half a day or so. it wouldn't have been difficult, he didn't often go anywhere.

but now they looked tired and worried. the corners of his eyes were turned down as his slacked jaw began to, slowly but surely, pull his entire face down along with it. it was quite a feat, to stand. his feet had to be planted firmly on the ground which shouldn't be too smooth or he might slip and fall, not to rough or it might cut up his pointlessly calloused sole and, for obvious reasons, consistently well-leveled. it was an ergonomic ballet. he had to lean far forward enough, and push up with his sabulous hands enough, and power through with his ginger legs enough, that gravity would throw him over into a standing position, but not so far that it would throw him over into a broken hip.

he was, however, determined.

"i want to walk."

"we're in the middle of the street! please, just sit down."

it took two people to help him stand. and he could walk no more than 10 feet or so before those with him got impatient and encouraged him to sit back down in his wheelchair. but he did walk. his weathered sandals scraped against the floor as he gambled each spindly leg to carry the weight of his body as he laboured one foot, centimeters, in front of the other. to the untrained eye it was a shuffle, but in the heart and mind and soul of an aged man it was a sprint. it was all his wishes come true.

and as he did so, the world skipped, cantered, hopped, jogged, ran, marched, jumped, strolled, sauntered, pranced, trotted and ambled by around him.