Forest

I was jogging once on a dirt road that cut through a forest. It was quiet and each of my footsteps landed with a soft crunch. Eventually I came upon a man walking with a big walking stick. It was a tree branch, really, one that he’d apparently picked up on his way. It was as long as he was, this stick, which was not so very long. I was taller than him and I am short. He was older, maybe 65.

He was walking in the same direction that I was jogging and as I approached from behind him I saw that he was wearing headphones — the big kind, that cover your ears like ear muffs. He couldn’t hear me coming, I could tell.

It was a small road, one car-width, but I gave myself as much berth as I could — five feet between us. I didn’t want to startle him.

I startled him.

“Hey!” He shouted, and stopped, and spun towards me, swinging the stick up over his head, holding it in both hands like an axe. His eyes were wild in panic.

I slowed to stop and raised my hands, palms toward him, to show him I meant no harm. His eyes calmed and he lowered the stick. He shook his head, bewildered at himself, and said, ashamed, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. My fault. I got scared.”

He spoke louder than he had to, because of the headphones.

I smiled and told him it was okay and kept jogging.

(Previously.)