11/21/2025
This is beautiful: https://www.facebook.com/share/p/1DB2eqDQdc/
My 40-year career ended with a gold watch. My 78th year is ending with me becoming a ghost. Only my old dog, Barnaby, still sees me.
Barnaby is fourteen. In human years, that makes him even older than I am, and his hips are worse. Our walks are our last shared ritual. His claws go click… click… click… on the suburban pavement, a slow, aching rhythm that matches the beat of my own worn-out heart.
Today, we stopped at "The Daily Grind," the new coffee shop that replaced the old hardware store. The kid behind the counter had white buds in his ears and never once looked at my face. He was staring at a screen.
"What can I getcha?" he mumbled.
"A black coffee, please. Just plain."
He blinked, as if I’d ordered in a dead language. "Like… just... coffee? No cold foam? No caramel drizzle?"
"Just coffee," I said. He huffed, grabbed a cup, and I paid. He never saw me. He looked through me, just like the young couple last week who almost backed into me in the grocery aisle, too busy arguing over oat milk to notice the 180-pound man leaning on a cart.
I am invisible.
We reached our spot. The park bench facing my old high school. We sit here every day at 4 PM. Barnaby lets out a long, theatrical groan—a sound of loyal rust—and settles his graying muzzle on my knee.
The school bell rings. The distant shout of the football coach cuts through the autumn air. I close my eyes. I don't hear the thump-thump of the music from the kids' phones. I hear the crackle of a Ford Mustang’s radio in 1968, playing The Beatles. I smell chalk dust. I see my late wife, Martha, waving from the bleachers.
We were beautiful then. We were rebels. We argued about Vietnam and danced until 2 AM. Now, my rebellion is just insisting on black coffee.
A flock of kids bursts from the school doors, loud and bright and terribly alive. They are all looking at their phones, laughing at something on a tiny screen. I see high-waisted jeans and flannel shirts. They are wearing our old clothes, but they don't want our stories.
One girl breaks from the pack. She looks angry, with bright purple streaks in her hair. She slumps onto the other end of our bench and throws her book onto the concrete.
"Stupid," she mutters.
The book slides to a stop near my shoe. The Great Gatsby.
Barnaby, bless his arthritic bones, lifts his head. He thumps his tail once, twice. He knows sadness when he smells it. He pushes himself up, winces, and limps the two feet over to her. He nudges her hand.
She flinches, yanking an earbud out. "Oh," she says, her voice suddenly soft. "Hey, buddy." She strokes his head, and his tail thumps again.
I clear my throat. "He's a good boy. Just slow."
"He's awesome," she says, not looking at me. She's focused on Barnaby. "What's his name?"
"Barnaby."
We sit in silence for a moment, united by the dog. She gestures to the book on the ground. "Have you read it? It’s just... stupid. All these rich people being sad."
The old Mister Arthur in me straightens his tweed jacket. The teacher wakes up.
"It’s not about the parties, you know," I say, my voice surprising me with its old firmness. She looks up, finally making eye contact.
"It’s about trying to rewind the clock," I continue. "It’s about being so desperate to be seen by one person that you build an entire mansion, light up a whole city, just hoping they’ll finally look your way."
I am talking about Gatsby, but my own voice chokes. I am talking about me.
The girl just stares.
Suddenly, a terrible sound rips the air. A dry, hacking, body-wracking cough. It’s Barnaby. He stumbles, his old legs buckling. He’s choking.
My breath vanishes. The world narrows. "Barny?"
I’m on my knees, my own arthritis screaming, but I don't care. My hands are shaking as I try to clear his throat. The teacher is gone. The invisible man is gone. All that’s left is a terrified old man about to lose his only friend.
"Barnaby! No!" I plead.
"Sir! Is he okay?" The girl is on her knees beside me.
Another violent heave, and Barnaby coughs up whatever was stuck. He gasps, then licks my shaking hand, his whole body trembling. I collapse back onto the pavement, pulling his head into my lap, tears streaming down my face into his fur.
I don't know how long we sit there, the girl with the purple hair rubbing Barnaby's back while I just try to breathe.
Finally, she says, "You... you explain it better than my teacher."
I look up at her. The world is blurry, but I see her. And she is seeing me.
It wasn’t a compliment. It was oxygen.
She picks up an old film camera from her backpack—the kind we used in the 80s. "Is it okay," she asks, "if I take a picture? Of you guys?"
She takes the picture. The click of her camera is the loveliest sound in the world.
As Barnaby and I walk home in the dusk, my steps feel lighter. I am not a ghost. I am just a book that has been sitting on a shelf for a very long time, waiting for someone to open it.
We weren't born with gray hair. We were the rebels, the lovers, and the builders long before you were. We are not ghosts; we are libraries. Every wrinkle is a chapter, every liver spot a footnote.
Don't let us become the books that are never opened. Please. Just turn the first page.
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