NAVEL GAZING: excessive absorption in self-analysis or focus on a single issue

Walking

Walking wasn't always just walking. At first, it was an escape, a way to quiet the thoughts of failure that followed me everywhere. Those disruptive thoughts were temporarily silenced as I pushed myself along the trail, plugged into one of the many podcasts on my phone. I walked anywhere from five to seven miles each morning after dropping the boys off at school. Almost everything in my life back then was an escape, but nothing worked better than walking.

Over time, the trail became familiar—not just the path itself, but the people who walked it. There's George, the elderly man who defies his age with a fast walk and long stride, often shirtless and tossing a rock between his hands. "Another crappy day," he'll quip on a beautiful sunny morning. A young woman, built like a linebacker, maintains an astonishingly fast run and greets you with a high-raised arm and a wide smile. An elderly Asian woman jogs slowly, frequently stopped by those drawn to her friendly Golden Retriever. She doesn't seem to mind the interruptions, always happy to make small talk. Occasionally, I run into Terri, a former classmate and ex-girlfriend of one of my lifelong mates. I faintly remember her from high school as a pretty girl with an edge, but over the years, that edge softened—perhaps worn down by a successful teaching career and a lasting marriage that shaped a picturesque family.

Most notable was a man I befriended along the trail, though we never exchanged many words. He was recognizable from a distance, his gait uneven, his movements slow and deliberate. I never knew what caused his impairment—whether it was a stroke or an accident—but it made him stand out. And yet, that wasn't what I noticed first. What drew me to him wasn't just his careful movements or quiet persistence—it was something deeper, something that reminded me of Papa George. Maybe it was his olive skin, hinting at Latin descent. Maybe it was the way he carried himself—well-groomed, fit, and with a humble demeanor. Or maybe it was the struggle to communicate. Like my grandfather, he spoke in a way that was difficult for me to understand, and yet, we managed.

In my childhood, whenever my grandparents stayed overnight, Papa was always the earliest to rise. Not wanting to wake anyone, he would quietly use the downstairs bathroom, and long after he left, the scent of his aftershave lingered in the air. To this day, whenever I catch a whiff of Aqua Velva, I think of him. He was a kind and gentle man, skilled in sketching perfect scenes of Native Americans adorned in feathered headdresses atop wild horses. But he was also strong and disciplined—a man who spent fifty years with the Santa Fe Pacific Railroad. During World War II, he worked grueling seven-day shifts, ensuring raw materials were shipped for fighter planes, steel plates for shipyards, and food for American troops. He worked his way through the ranks and retired as a car inspector, but even in retirement, he never stopped moving. He built a small house for himself and Nanny, rising early each morning to clear his property and maintain the household.

Some of my favorite childhood memories are of summer visits with my younger brother, helping Papa gather firewood. Raised in the city, we found excitement in what were routine chores to him. Papa would drag sections of fallen trees up the hill with the winch on his truck, and from a safe distance, we'd watch him cut them into rounds with his chainsaw. Later, we'd help him split them into firewood using a wedge and sledgehammer. It was work, but it felt like an adventure.

I thought about Papa often when I saw the man on the trail. Like Papa, he moved with purpose, even when his body resisted. Often, he would stop to stretch, sometimes groaning as if in pain. There were many times when I quietly passed, not wanting to draw his attention and embarrass him. But one day, as I neared the Norwood Bridge, he caught my eye. It became clear he needed help. Despite his difficulty speaking, his gestures told me his glasses strap had broken. I tied it with a square knot, and after a few struggled attempts to enunciate his appreciation, he limped off.

Our friendship began that day. Each morning after, I carried an extra leash in my pocket, waiting for the next time I'd see him. It felt good to help someone who so obviously needed it. When we met on the trail, we'd stop and share a few quiet moments—nods, grins, a pat on the shoulder before continuing on our way. There's a warm feeling you get with certain people, a mutual happiness that shows in each other's eyes.

And then, one day, he was gone. Weeks passed before I found the reason—an announcement posted on a tree. His name, his picture, the details of his funeral.

One morning, long ago, Nanny found Papa George on the ground near his bed. They had maintained separate rooms for as long as I could remember, because of Papa's snoring. During the night, he had suffered a stroke. He recovered, but years later, another came. We all gathered at the Boston Kaiser Hospital. I remember sitting beside him, seeing something in his face I never had before—fear. It was unsettling, foreign. And yet, all seemed to be going well. Until suddenly, it wasn't. It still haunts me, the strange wording from the ICU nurse: "We're expecting a catastrophic event." And much like my own father's recent passing, also in an ICU room and at first unexpected, the end came much too fast.

I miss running into the man on the trail. I often wondered about his life, his past, the details that remained unknown. And yet, I knew him well. Enough to believe he was a good person. Enough to call him a friend. Our brief exchanges gave me a break from my own worries, a reason to feel good about myself.

Now, others walk that same stretch of trail, the one extending from Norwood to Westwood. Some may recognize me—the man with graying hair, always with a Starbucks cup in hand, quick to smile and greet those who pass. They may have noticed that for years, I walked alone. But now, I am often accompanied by another. A younger man who bears my resemblance, who shares my smile, my obvious taste for coffee. Most who see us don't know the connection, but those who do would recognize him as my second-born son, Noah. He has taken to morning walks, and like his dad, he begins each one with a well-rehearsed order from Starbucks: a Grande Pike Place coffee in a venti cup, with steamed cream.

Maybe one day, someone will see in me what I once saw in him—that quiet familiarity, that unspoken connection. Maybe, without knowing why, they'll remember me long after I've stopped walking these trails. And perhaps, in that moment, they'll be reminded that you never truly know what hardship someone has endured—that behind each quiet presence, each passing nod or familiar face, there is a story unseen, a life shaped by struggles and resilience.