Godfather

About a year ago as I returned to Woodville after meeting friends for dinner, I had to detour from my usual route on Highway 61 because of patrol units blocking the road. I wondered what was going on.

Word spreads quickly in small towns, and I soon learned one of our community members was crossing the highway on foot when he was struck and killed. A friend passed along his name, but I couldn’t place it.

Woodville’s streets and sidewalks are full of “regulars”--people I see several times a week around town. Our house is located in a somewhat high-traffic area, so we often see pedestrians while we’re working in the yard or sitting on the porch.

Over time I have learned the names of some, but others I haven’t formally met. While I may not know what their friends call them, they are as familiar to me as those I can identify by name.

I know their gaits, their faces, their schedules--all small clues into who they are. I get glimpses of their joy and sadness, their age, their inward battles, and their physical infirmities as they walk by, but I still do not know their stories.

The night of the accident, my source told me “Godfather” was what people called the accident victim, but it didn’t ring a bell. Later I learned his given name, but I still couldn’t put a face with the name--not until a few days later when I saw a social media post showing a video of him. I immediately recognized his face.

During our time here in Woodville, I had seen Godfather walk down the street by my house several times a week, often twice or more a day. As I do to all passersby, I always waved from afar or called “Hello” if I was near enough to the street to speak to them. He rarely spoke, but he was still a neighbor, someone who had become a familiar part of my days. Someone with a face I wished I could know the stories behind.

In the weeks following the arrival of the coronavirus, I would feel a little anxious if I had not seen him or any of the other regular walkers in a while, wondering if they had succumbed to illness. But then I would see them pass by and my heart danced in gratitude that they were still here, familiar figures of the landscape.

The last time I saw him, I remember telling Godfather to stay healthy and safe from this coronavirus, and he nodded and said he would. If I could rewind time, I would have properly introduced myself instead, “I’ve seen you a lot since I moved here, so you must be my neighbor. What’s your name?”

(This photo is one of the first times I ever saw Godfather walking by my house. We had not yet moved in and spent some weekends working there. I was sitting on my porch early one July morning drinking coffee and listening to the light rain when this man draped in a blanket passed. I was amused by his “umbrella” so I snapped a photo.)