There is a homeless man, down the street by the church. No one knows how old he is, or where he came from. He doesn’t even have a proper name. Every day he walks from the church to the crematorium, one slow step at a time, so that it takes him all day.

If you happen to be on that street, and see him walking, you’ll find he talks. Not to you, but to the air, to the earth, to anything that will listen without understanding. One day we saw him stop, to talk to a stray cat. The cat listened solemnly and when he’d finished it walked away. We never saw it again.

It was July, and the flowers were out in the graveyard. The sun was beating down on his stooped head. He didn’t notice. I stopped him and asked him his name and what he said to the earth and the sky and the trees.

There is a homeless man, down the street by the church. No one knows how old I am, or where I came from. I don’t even have a proper name. Every day I walk from the church to the crematorium, one slow step at a time, so that it takes me all day.