Shimmer and I walked past Moonbase Alpha Dog park today. I call it that because it’s desolate and sandy with just a few rocks scattered at one end. It’s a depressing dog park: no grass, tiny, and smells awful. Shimmer doesn’t think much of it either.
A bus pulled up next to us and a stately lady stepped out. She gave us a big smile. We crossed the street together and she asked me if I was continuing up the hill. I told her I was and we began.
Her name was Christine she said.
“I used to take a cab everywhere, but now I walk and it’s hard when you’re seventy.”
I told her I found that hard to believe. She seemed much younger in every way.
“It’s my family. My mama lived to 100 and my dad lived to be 110. They both died in Katrina. I lost 52 friends. Katrina was awful.”
I gave her my condolescenes when suddenly I realized she said her father was 110 when he died. Could that really be true? And 52 friends? Before I could ask her any questions, her phone rang. She fished it out of her jacket pocket and waved us goodbye.