Sparrows Nests

A man stood near the top of the stone steps leading up to my street. He had only three or four left; I sat in my third-floor window and watched him wait, rest. His tired body leaned on double crutches as he struggled with motivation to carry on. A young man came up behind him, raced up the steps two at a time, passed him without giving him a second notice. He carried a carton of milk, and a large brown package he must have picked up at the post office. The older man gathered his strength, mastered the last few steps. I wondered if he would have accepted help, if offered.

Dark gray clouds rolled in. The light rain turned to hail in a second; I saw my neighbors rush out onto their balconies, bring in cushions. Some stood, just like me, gazing at the force, breathing in the newborn air. I counted seconds between lightning and thunder and didn't get far; it rumbled right over our heads and out across the city. Södermalm, the epicenter of angry weather gods. When I looked south, past the church, it was nothing but blue skies and sunshine, quietly biding its time, quietly promising miracles.

I saw a ragged man last night, a thin hobo with a gray beard, walking his equally ragged hound along the streets to destinations unknown. He rolled a cigarette as he walked, his tired eyes awash with sadness, and with peace. How I wanted to stop him, to walk alongside him for just a little while, ask him where he was going and why he chose such a destitute life when we have every chance to make it. How I wanted him to reveal the secret of a life at peace, of the meaning of it all, the sage bum, how I felt the spirit of Allen swim above our heads and smiling. The rest of it is only stuff, after all. We must remember to be in awe, of the Everything.