Free to Write

Does it matter that I like to walk to the library on my own? Why does he follow me from afar in our slow-moving car? Why does he think someone will harm me, an old woman my age? These were the thoughts, or rather my internal objections, at first.

I’ve lived in this town for over twenty years and the library is my retreat. I know most of the ropes of walking along on the infinitely curving streets, as well as the oddities of the neighbors. The road isn’t particularly a scenic route either. It is rather through a neighborhood for mostly of the elderly who like to keep their lawns in tiptop shape. At the end of it all, across from the avenue, is the middle school, and the library stands just next door to it. Not far at all.

I’ve tried several times to change my route, to break away from his trailing me, but to no avail. I couldn’t shake him. The last time after I got home, he pouted for a long while, his hidden passive-aggressiveness taking hold, because I had tried to dodge him. When the silence between us grew heavier and I almost lost hope of establishing a meaningful dialogue, he suddenly blurted out that he felt lonely without me in the house. To him it was like I died and he was left all alone. Crazy! But he meant it. First, I listened without responding; then, it occurred to me that it wasn’t me he was following. It was his own fear.

So, the library has now become our shared retreat as I’ve given up walking and he drives us to the library, a trip most peculiar, yet so romantic…even in old age. Funny, isn’t it!