Every day they pass by, slowly and short in stride, gripping the spongy handles of their walkers. They make the circuit, up the other side of the street, round the administration building, past the "community room" building, back down this side of the street and by my windows. There is one who always stops and gapes at my windows, mouth slackjawed, oxygen tube hanging over her ears, she squints her eyes to get a look at me. I don't socialize here; I sit at my desk in the mornings. I imagine all she can see is my left arm, resting on a pull-out shelf of this old teacher's desk, hand resting on the mouse. Still, every day she stops and gawks.
They are usually alone, though sometimes a free walker will walk with one who is pushing the contraption. The free walker will adapt their steps, shorten them, so unused to such a slow pace that they occasionally falter and almost stumble. Companions are rare for the walkers. Alone with their thoughts, they push forward, gazing up now and then. The route never varies.
What's Your Hurry?
12 hours ago