A Moment

The old man took a drag on a ragged cigarette,
his skin paper thin, his eyes twinkling
as he sketched the coming storm.

“This is the hardest thing.” he said.
“There is no destination.
No place you have to be.

For stopping has two purposes.
To rest.
Or to die.

And, I am not dead yet,
no matter the appearances.
Neither are you.”

The old man coughed
as he folded up his easel,
and deliberately set his paints in narrow rows.

“Don’t worry about whether you will make it.
You won’t. You will travel
and you will die.

And all that matters
is whether you found joy
and whether you gave it back.”

The old man closed his paint box,
tipped his worn grey fedora. And then he was gone.
Only, he wasn’t.