In our own worlds

On a bright evening walking out of the small estate, I note a middle-aged man with hair as brown as mud plodding slowly up the road.

A car passes. He flails both arms like he’s practicing semaphore. Try again, I think, you may take off soon. Another car passes seemingly oblivious to his actions. His arms again flail.

I tell myself to slow down, as he might have been saying goodbye to his brain cells. I did not want to find myself caught up with him and him engaging me in a conversation about trivialities.

He walks on. I walk on; both in our own worlds. He waves again as a car passes. He then crouches, stretches out his arms. A small smiling child jumps from a buggy and runs into his arms.

I smile and walk on.