Old? A year or two younger than me, truth be told.
Thirty years ago, he was a marathoner.
He’d shoot past me without a word, on the way up, relishing blowing me away on the road and in life.
It ruined his knees eventually. Then executive work stress caused his stroke.
He rules the world and neighbourhood no more.
I pass him, my jogging speed a little slower these days.
“Good morning, Jack!” I say, not quite sincerely.