The Man in the Grass

He walks on grass.

There’s sidewalk to his behind, should he shift his cane and turn his withered body towards the concrete. It’s fractured from years of rain pelts and footsteps, all cracked pave to match the man’s seniority. Even from my fourth story window, through the finger smudges of boredom’s touch, I can see his graying hair and hunched back.

His shoes scrape their way through the lawn, no particular pep; no sense of urgency despite his seeming need to take a shortcut. I feel a flush of irritation at the sight, small but deepening, and wonder why someone would so blatantly ignore the easy path offered. It’s right there, safe and promising to lead him where he needs to be.

I keep my anger to myself, though, because Mom says that negativity is a killer. I disagree. I think my body is doing a fine job of killing me, even when I smile and thank God for the kind things of life.

Cancer is a killer.

I can say that here, hold my vexations and keep them to my heart. Because they’re mine. Mom’s prayers and oils and wellness magazines can’t pry them from me.

The man makes it to the edge of the sod, and for a breathless moment, I wait for him to finally touch concrete. He pauses, looking down at the anticipating stone, and turns 90 degrees to his left, walking right alongside it in the green. I gape at the sight.

“Lara-May, didn’t I tell you to stay in bed?”

I stand quickly, greeting Mom with a guilty nod.

“You’ll never feel better if you don’t rest.” Mom ushers me back into the stiff, blindingly-white hospital bed, then moves over to the window. She shuts the blinds quickly, but I sit up far enough to see the man in the grass one more time before he disappears. “You’ve taken down your sister’s drawing?”

“It was scaring Elliot,” I answer her. I know it’s unkind to say, considering my sister is still trying to find a rhythm between abstract and plain eerie. But Mom allows me to say rude things sometimes because I’m sick.

“Elliot went home,” Mom says.

“He’ll be back,” I answer. If there’s one thing cancer promises, it’s consistent hospital visits.

Mom shoots me a look of displeasure, shaking her head whilst she sets to folding my extra hospital gowns. “Don’t manifest that for him, Lara-May. He was feeling better.”

I ignore that because I feel better too, but I know it never lasts. And so does Elliot. We always come back. He holds my hand and I hold his, every time. So we know.

“There was a man outside,” I inform her.

“There are lots of men outside,” she answers.

“He walked in the grass,” I say.

Mom sighs. “Did he?”

“Yes.” I nod.

Mom glances over at me, sets down the pile of gowns. She looks tired; she usually does, after long days at home with my other four siblings. They’re not dying, but they’re still difficult, I’m sure. Not that she complains. “Are you asking if you can go for a walk?”

“No,” I say. Then: “Can I?’

“May you,” Mom corrects.

“May I?”

“After you nap,” Mom answers. She ruffles my hair, pulling the rigid blankets across my chest. “I’m going to find Dr. Sallow.”

“Mom.”

“Yes?”

“Why didn’t he use the sidewalk?” I ask.

“Who?”

“The man.”

Mom gives me an odd look. “I don’t know. Go to sleep.”

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I walk on sidewalk.

Nurse Wilson hums alongside me, gazing longingly at the flowers above, buzzing with bees and soft wind. She’s always rather dreamy; Mom calls her an airhead, but I think she’s just passionate. Not in a romantic way, though, because she isn’t married and doesn’t seem to be looking.

Elliot says she flirts with Dr. Sallow, but I don’t believe him. Boys think everything is flirtatious.

“Hold on one moment, Lara-May,” Nurse Wilson says quickly, spotting a newer patient that seems a bit lost in the maze of the hospital. “Stay right here, I’m going to help her.”

She goes running to give directions, while I look at the ground, kicking a loose pebble with my shoe. It’s not long before I wander towards the grass, looking for remnants of the man from earlier; like he may have dropped fairy dust or a mysterious compass. Instead, all I find are footprints and small smudges in the soil from his cane.

Slowly, I feel a curiosity return like a serpent snaking its way up my leg, known only to me. My evil secret which I do not chastise, which I cannot loathe. I know to mind my business, but a part of me doesn't allow it.

I spot a familiar head of grey hair on the other side of the courtyard and march myself towards him, my darker half leading me. He sits calmly on a bench, cane resting against the metal bars as neatly as his demeanor when I stop before him. He gives me a nod in greeting.

I return it, for even my wonder has manners. “Hi.”

“Hello,” he answers. His voice is slightly scratchy, like my grandfather’s is. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?’

“Sure.” I hadn’t noticed, really, because his footprints had kept my gaze downward.

“Would you like to sit?” He asks me, gesturing to the spot beside him.

I hesitate, but find myself scooting onto the bench, looking over at him with hardly contained questions. I want to know why a man that seems so proper as himself might disregard pavements. “How old are you?”

He gives me a funny look, and for a moment I expect him to scold my rudeness; adults never like to be asked their age. Instead, he smiles and answers me. “How old do you think I am?”

“My grandfather is sixty-three,” I tell him, remembering his birthday from last month. “Are you that old?”

The man smiles, amused. “I’m much older than that. How old are you?”

“I’m eleven,” I tell him. “I’ve been told I’m mature for my age, so you may have guessed older. But I’m not.”

His grin does not leave; it’s wrinkled and thin, but warming nonetheless.

“My name is Lara-May,” I say.

“Lara,” he repeats.

“No. Lara-May. Two first names.”

“Ah,” he nods. “I apologize. I only have one.”

“What is it?” I ask.

“George.” George holds out a hand for me to shake, and I do.

I look between George and the grass, deciding how to word my answer without earning myself that chiding look that adults give. For some reason, it always feels worse when someone old like a grandparent gives it. It’s like, they’ve spent a great many years being disappointed at things and they’ve still chosen to be disappointed at you. So you must have done something really bad.

“I saw you earlier in the window,” I inform him, dutiful still to my original petulance. “I’m up there on the fourth floor, see? It’s pretty far, but I have great vision. My friend Elliot wears glasses but I’ve never had to. Anyway, I have a question.”

George nods at me, looking back back to the trees in front of him like they’re rather interesting. “Yes?”

“I was just wondering why you walked in the grass,” I continue, playing with the hem of my jacket. “It’s just, the sidewalk was right beside you and you didn’t use it. Mom gets mad when I walk in the grass because she says it leaves footprints. And I saw yours. So she’s right.”

George doesn’t look away from the sight before him. “I suppose I just prefer the grass.”

I blink a few times at his casual non-answer. “Sure. But why? The sidewalk is much easier, and everyone uses it.”

George hums, tapping his finger against his knee as if he can hear some song that I can’t. Maybe his hearing aids have built-in speakers or something. That would be cool. “The easier thing isn’t always the better thing.”

I consider that for a moment, and don’t know how to answer, because I suppose he’s right. Still, I feel the need to argue. I could be a lawyer or something. “But sometimes it is.”

“Yes. Sometimes it is,” George agrees with me. I smile, pleased to have been right. He continues. “I’m sure your mother is a very intelligent person. But I don’t mind footprints. They’re reminders of where you’ve been.”

I shake my head. “Your brain remembers where you’ve been.”

“For a while,” George says. “Until you’re old, like me. Then you start to forget.”

I’ve heard that adults start to lose their memory when they reach a certain age, but I’ve never met anyone who admitted it so openly. George doesn’t seem to hide his age, like others do. He seems proud of it, like I am of mine.

“But footprints also show others where you’ve been,” George continues.

“Elliot knows everywhere I’ve been,” I say. “I tell him everything.:

George continues his knee tapping. “Well, sometimes people need a little extra reminder. In case you aren’t there to tell them.”

“Like if you die?” I ask.

“Yes. Like if you die.”

I hum. “Are you going to die?

George looks at me then, presses his lips together before he answers. “Yes. I’m going to die.”

“Me too.” I look back at him, then at the grass. “And Elliot, too. That’s why I don’t have hair. Not because I wanted it like this. My hair was really pretty. Red.”

George looks at the beanie on my head, as if imagining my red hair was still there. “I see.”

“That’s why you’re here at the hospital?” I ask him. “Because you’re dying?”

“Yes,” George answers.

“I haven’t left any footprints,” I say. “Will people forget about me and where I’ve been?”

George considers that, gives me a sad smile. “No. I don’t think it’d be easy to forget someone like you, Lara-May.” He stands up, grabs his cane with one hand and motions for me to follow. “But if you’d like, we can leave a few footprints, just in case.”

I stand, watching as George walks slowly away from the bench and onto the turf. I follow.

Together, we walk through the grass, making sure we leave marks behind.