Down the gravel path

In the shade of the fir trees sitting on the old wooden bench they sit. The red paint chips off, more each year, revealing the dark brown beneath. Soft dust twirls underfoot in the breeze. I break away from the group of youth when I see them. My heart beats faster with recognition and a smile crinkles the corners of my eyes. It's been so long since I last saw them, yet their identity is unmistakable. They look so frail, skin slightly yellower, nearer to transparency, hair lightening toward a pale gray. Despite it all, youth is in their sparkling, dancing eyes. Life is in their posture, their questions, their bright smiles. At once comfortable, feeling more at home with the parents than with the children, I embrace them and sit. For a time too short we talk, and then with a gentle word, they shoo me back to fellowship time with my peers. Time goes swirling past like the soft dirt in the wind, barely noticed as it drifts past, never returning.