The car parks and I reluctantly leave the song on the radio. I walk up one block and down the hill on the other. An apartment complex, with ground mustard brownish yellow colored bricks, takes up about a quarter of the block. Inside are rooms and rooms filled with seniors who have come here to live as a place where they can get some basic assistance and no yard work. I see them on the patio, gathered in little conversational groups, and in more solitary fashion on the benches.
With these people all gathered in one place, there are some days it is all I can do to resist heading in there with notepad and pen rather than continuing on past the library and then into work. These people have seen major world events and have walked through their own major life events. Surely they have something to share with us, a drop of wisdom, a guffaw or two, a need for a Kleenex type story, and then back to the guffaws.
I don’t know that I will ever actually charge into that complex; notebook, pen, Kleenex, and listening ear all at the ready. But, I hope that someone does, that someone stops to gather the stories.