I overheared two elderly men at the counter talk about remembering what the yellow light means. Moments like that make me want to stop and step backwards — listen for a little more.
They must be joking, I thought. Who among us doesn’t know what the yellow light means. It fits between stop and go.
I kept on walking, wondering as I exited the building if either men had driven here. Hopefully by the time they had to drive home, they would both remember yellow.
I don’t want to forget what yellow means.
I took my Irish-worries and my mother’s-doubts and sat down by the river. When is it that we get old? I asked the only bird floating in the drift.
When I went back to work, the men were gone. One had driven the other home, the people at the counter informed me.
Why was that, I asked.
The man in the red shirt owns the Buick parked outside- its check engine light was on.