In Hot Springs, Arkansas, I rested on a bench in the park on the Arlington Lawn as I snapped photos of the area doing research for a novel. A man shuffled up, wearing droopy shorts and no shirt, the sweat pouring down his back like a river. He held a tethered backpack with his fist—while muttering words under his breath. One couple hurried on, darting around him, and another woman, running for her morning outing, rushed by, unaware of his presence. He now circled inside the shade of the gazebo next to me, chattering to no one—but himself. After all, I didn’t engage with him; he was talking to himself. He muttered, “I don’t know where they are. I knew once. But now they’ve left me. I wonder if they’ll come back for me. I don’t know. I wish I did.”
His words rattled in a cadence like a poem. Like a rhyme of sorts. And in minutes, he was gone—chasing the wind down the sidewalk.
After snapping several other photos, I moved down Central Avenue as my car was parked on the other side of all the bathhouses.
