Januariad

Colm looks old for his station. He comes down the middle of the empty street, pushing a buggy out of which hangs one languorous child of indeterminate gender. A second keeps pace with her grandfather, taking and releasing and taking his hand six times a minute.

The man wears tracksuit bottoms, layers of fleece, tired out runners. A peaked cap on his head. It takes a moment to register his age. His face is rangy and dark, tanned by years. His features are not soft nor fresh but they hold a measure of youth in them all the same. It’s the skin around his eyes that marks his true age and his temporary stewardship. He speaks constantly to his two companions—about the weather, about the street, about the passing day—and they ignore him with amiable familiarity.

He carries the kids along with a kind of fretful intensity of which they appear entirely ignorant. In this, too, he is old. Straight of back, true of stride, but ever glancing concernedly around him. At cars. At passers by. At the children. He is taking them home. They’re on the way home. They’ll be home soon.