Quiet

He's sitting there watching them work. Dirty and quiet. Unassuming. Reverent. It's as if he's watching an artist at work rather then some men dumping rock outside a garage. He’s making a memory that I have interrupted, walking by, obscuring his view. We make eye contact and he gives me a slight nod. A gift of acknowledgement to prove that he saw me, that I am forgiven for my intrusion into this moment that was his. Now it has become ours, in a way. I give a faint smile in response, an apology. The quietness of him is still here, hours later. It has wrapped itself around me and made me its own.