Sometimes we pass other folks on the path. Today it was the lady in her long sari. Little, with dark eyes and hair, and skin perforated with wrinkles, she had a tiny hand up against the wind. The exotic cloth of her gown seemed far too thin. Henry stopped his walking and looked at her in mistrust. I said a few comforting words and a, "Hello." She passed by without a reply. Perhaps I shouldn't have spoken.
It's always my goal to make sure Henry's 'business' is done before we head back into the neighborhood. But sometimes, for whatever reason, he can't get the job done until we get right back onto our street. Then inspiration hits and he crouches over the rock landscaping of the first house on the block. I could be mistaken, but I think that house belongs to the Indian lady we passed today. Guess I'm guess I'm lucky she didn't say anything after all.