Until Then

He walks. Every day, he walks.

His beady eyes are sharp like a birds, trapped behind the glass of thick, near-sighted lenses. Eyes that only ever look forward. To pass by him, it’s as if he’s looking at something only he can see. Or perhaps, something that isn’t there at all.

Through the park, down the main avenues, weaving in and out of the small side streets. Sun, rain, snow. Hot, cold. Always, he walks. Never saying a word to anyone. Never a wave or a nod. His face remains steadily expressionless, even when the daily joggers and bicyclists recognize him, and maybe stare. At his beard, that’s grown unkempt and long. At his skin, that’s grown weathered and browned. Or even at his attire; he’s started to sport a neon reflective vest at all times, leaving some to wonder if he walks throughout the nights, too.

He never kicks rocks, he never picks up lucky pennies, he never waits for lights. He’ll turn a corner, go a different way, never wasting a moment in pause. He even only wears shoes with Velcro, to avoid the risk of laces untying and losing time. He walks and walks, and then, finally, eventually, he goes home.

He shuffles up a short flight of brick steps to a front door without a porch. He pauses in the soft light of the fixtures that illuminate the rusted house number. He reaches for the small leather pouch tucked away in his pocket, and removes a single key. He turns it in the dulled gold lock, opens the door, then closes it behind him.

He walks past a small, cluttered living room with a single recliner chair and a TV. Down the cramped hallway with walls filled with dusty photo frames, and baseboards lined with short stacks of paper and books. Then to the kitchen, the only room in the house that’s fully lit.

On the left, there’s a little white and black stove. Then, a short counter space with filled shelves above it, and finally, a table, which sits in front of a heavily curtained window. At the table, he makes a right, and then, he stops.

He’s standing before a wall. It’s covered in calendar months. Months that have passed, each day marked with a bright red number. At the edge of the wall hangs a red sharpie pen tied to a string, which he dutifully grabs, removes the cap from, and writes a neat number “8” on this day’s date. He considers the number, and sighs through his nose. He turns, and picks up a notepad that’s sitting on the kitchen tabletop. There, is a series of numbers that’s been added to, and then crossed out, over and over again, for several sheets back. He writes an “8” below the most recent number that’s there – 2,555 – and then, he crosses that out, and writes a new total: 2,563. He puts the pad down.

He sits at the table and stares at the wall, a clear shot from his seat. He mulls the wall, crossing his legs, hand at his chin. What had he said to her, always said to her? “Darling, I would walk 100,000 miles to see you again, if that’s what it took.” And now, a year she’d been gone. The day she passed, he felt in his bones that if he were to walk that 100,000 miles, he would indeed see her again.

He looks to the heavily curtained window to his right, and wonders. What would she say, he thinks, if she could see me now? “Bet you’re wishing you’d promised me a lower number, huh?” And she’d grin playfully, that dimple on her right cheek seeming to wink mischievously as she did. He’d pull her close, smell her soft hair, feel her in his arms-

97,437 miles to go. Until then, my love. Until then.