Whenever I go walking now
it is not unusual for a neighbor
to cease weeding or raking
to lean on the fence
or perch on the stone wall and ask,
with concern furrowing their brow
“How are you?”
I don’t want to dump on them the
gritty details of my broken heart,
but being kind people, neighbors who
have shared this town for 30 years,
they have bravely asked a vital question.
Now they wait. Fidgeting. Anxious.
How will I answer “How are you?”
I generally say
a bit ruefully,
with a shrug, and
a ghost of a smile,
“I are!”
This makes them laugh.
The awkwardness passes.
Now we can talk about small things instead;
stacking wood (still not done)
dogs (mine straining at her leash)
the country store (will it fold?)
cell phone reception (lousy)
After a bit, our respective tasks call us
back to life, them to weeding or raking,
me to walking the straining dog and
stacking the waiting wood.
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