BB Grey–musings

not just one day..

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“The Walk Down Gravel”
for Mr. Graham, Vietnam Veteran

It’s Sunday.
The grass glistens with dew—
tiny glass beads strung
like prayers along every blade,
hydrating the earth
for the coming summer heat.

Across the street,
Mr. Graham’s black trash can stands at attention—
a quiet salute to the curb,
ready for duty.
Only, it’s not trash day.

Tuesday is the ritual,
but time has begun to blur its edges
in his mind.
Still, he makes the 127-foot pilgrimage down the gravel,
slippers catching every jagged stone,
leaning into the can like an old companion
that remembers the war stories
he no longer tells.

I offered to help more than once,
when I first moved in.
He waved me off with a smirk.
“Keeps me young,” he said.
And who was I to argue
with an 88-year-old man
who still mailed birthday cards,
still said Merry Christmas,
still voted,
and cried every Memorial Day.

“The Viet Cong couldn’t kill me,” he told me once,
“but that Tuesday trash pickup sure gives me hell.”
He chuckled,
then grew quiet.

Each week, he’d come out in those same blue stripped pajama pants,
that same oil-stained mechanic’s coat—
two sizes too big now,
draped like memory over shrinking bones.
He never had much garbage.
Didn’t believe in Amazon, or DoorDash.
Said a man oughta “hunt for his own damn food.”
Cash only. Paper bags. Confused by the plastic question.
“How many bags?”
“Sure,” he’d say.

On Monday,
I see him again—
confused the bins haven’t been emptied.
I run out, already bracing for the moment.

“Hey, Mr. Graham! Getting a head start on tomorrow?
I’ve got a couple bins too if you’re up for a workout.”

He stops, half-turns,
eyes squinting against the sun,
the timeline in his head rearranging.
A beat. Then a grin.
“Yah, sure,” he nods. “I’ll be right over.
At my speed, though, we might just miss it altogether.”

Back up the gravel he goes—
crunch, crunch, crunch—
then pauses.
Looks at his feet.
Looks at the door.
Looks at the can.

Still.

Then slowly,
he raises his hand
and salutes the air.
And I swear,
I’ve never seen a man stand straighter.
My eyes burn.
Not from the sun.

We both stand in silence.
Until he lowers his hand.
And the moment ends.

---

Tuesday.

I turn the corner coming home—
red, white, and blue flickers across my driveway.
Not bunting. Not a flag.
Emergency lights.

I pull over.
Open the door, heart pounding.

“Mr. Graham?” I ask.
But I already know.
The look on the paramedic’s face tells me
what words can’t.

The house is quiet now.
No slippers on gravel.
No blue coat brushing porch rails.

I sit on the curb
and stare at the empty can
at the foot of his drive.

His memory already feels like vapor—
but I can still see him in his pajamas,
with that crooked smile,
grease-stained jacket,
back ramrod straight,
hand over brow.

“Thank you for your service,”
I whisper.
Trying to mean it more than the phrase allows.

Then I roll his bin down the gravel,
feel the crunch beneath my shoes,
and for a moment—
a fleeting, sacred moment—
I walk with him again.

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