I waited five minutes at his door, squinting at the sun, and listening to him shuffling inside. When he answered he was dressed in a jacket, shirt, and slacks. He had a smile for me and I followed him through his shadow-draped house to the kitchen, my steps tight and small behind his careful, walking-stick-assisted gait. I cleared a space on his cluttered table and he sat opposite me, sighing out his weariness from the trek.
I asked about old times and his face lost years as he told me. Eventually, his words wound down, and he said:
“I made pizza for twenty-seven years. But the stroke put an end to everything.”
He clutched his cane, a heave puffing from his chest as he stood and hobbled to the sink. He filled a glass, his eyes on the swirl of water.
“But we keep going.”