Let Me Tell You a Story.

By Peter Bowden


An old man walked each morning with a tired dog whose tail wagged like a slow metronome. Not a remarkable dog—except to him. She was graying at the ears, stiff in the hips, but her eyes still held the kind of trust that could break your heart. Every morning, they walked the same loop through the neighborhood. Past the magnolia with its low-slung limbs. Past the red mailbox shaped like a fish. Past the bench that no one ever sat on anymore. The streets were quiet, the sun still undecided. Dew clung to grass and mailbox alike. They stopped beneath a crepe myrtle, the blossoms were falling in pink drifts, soft as ash.  He bent to tie his shoe but lingered, his fingers brushing the ground, remembering. The man looked down at his companion, who looked at him as if to say, yes, I remember too.

The dog watched him with patient eyes, the kind that forgave everything. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a marble. Just one. Sky-blue, with a swirl of white in the center like a frozen wisp of cloud. He held the marble up to the light and then let it fall into the grass. “For the boy I used to be,” he said, voice low, gravel-thick. The breeze stirred and for a moment, it felt like the world exhaled. A robin hopped nearby. Somewhere far off, a screen door creaked open. The man and dog, stone still—as if waiting for something to begin again. Maybe it did. And in that patch of morning, under pink blossoms and memory, nothing moved but time.

That’s the story—not made of noise or motion, but of stillness remembered.


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