By Kimm Brockett Stammen

There was this guy on the sidewalk, walking funny, so I slid up behind him and shoved.

Felt good, man. Sneakers flexing off concrete, energy springing through knees gushing up quads, hamstrings, torso; strength rushing into pecs, shoulders, delts and then zinging down my arms. Fingertips making first contact with his raggedy corduroy jacket, a flex of wrists, and then all of me—all of me—through my palms and straight at him. So easy. So united. I see something, I do it. I barely have to think.

Some chick once asked me what do I think is pretty. Of course I gave her the answer she wanted, cause she was, but what I really think is pretty—like, graceful—is muscle. Puissance, I heard someone at the gym call it: graceful power. A jerk guy in my way, push him down.

But the guy didn’t fall. He kind of staggered and twisted to the side, crunching grit. A wave of his BO washed over me as I came alongside to pass. He had one shoe with the sole broken nearly all the way off, a split sausage foot bulging out, and instead of lifting the foot like normal he was kind of dragging it sideways along the concrete to keep the shoe on.

I dunno. Something about it being different than what I thought. Felt off, man.

He righted himself, focused his eyes on the sidewalk, kept shuffling.

I stuffed my hands in my pockets and let him get on with it, corduroy still ridging my fingertips.

*

Momma said keep my dress clean because it was my Sunday dress and it was Sunday, but there was a worm on the sidewalk and it was lost! Momma, I said, but her high-heeled shoes clipped fast ahead of me. Because we were late to church because we were always late to church. Because momma would hold a necklace up in front of her neck, looking in the mirror, then hold a different necklace up looking at that one. Finally when she yelled oh-my-stars that meant it was time to fly out the door and down the bumpy ribbon of sidewalk.

I stopped and picked up the worm, pink-squishy and curling in my fingers. Poor thing, I whispered to it. You’re in the wrong place. Can’t you see where you’re going? Momma can worms see? I called, but momma called back not to touch worms, that my dress was white and to hurry up now. I wasn't touching the worm anymore, it was just lying there in my palm touching me, so I ran up beside her with it soft in my closed hand.

Outside the church were cutouts in the sidewalk for trees except mostly the trees were dead so there were just squares of dirt. While momma was doing hellos I dug a little home for the worm. The dug-up dirt had a warm thick smell. I put the worm in, but he didn’t wiggle much so maybe he liked it better in my hand. Worms belong in dirt, I whispered to it. Don’t forget next time! I wondered what kind of worm thoughts made it crawl onto the sidewalk, because most worms know not to. Maybe it was a curious worm and wanted to know more about concrete? I knelt and looked close and there were some sparkles like bits of worm-necklace in the dirt and it was a tiny bit beautiful.

Goodbye I whispered and used both hands to cover it up, then wiped my hands. Oh-my-stars momma yelled right behind me, and yanked me up under the arms and spun me around, my dress flinging splotches of earth.

*

152 steps on the sidewalk between the front door of Seaview Retirement Apartments and the entrance to Safeway. 152 is the maximum number of steps I can take since I broke my hip last year. September 16, it was. I remember because I turned 87 that day. I was not doing anything exciting either. Just, I reached for one of the three plates in my cupboard and fell down. Two weeks in the hospital, six more in a cast; they told my daughter I might not walk again and to put me on the list for an assisted place. One with whirring wheelchairs, roach-killer smell, dinner at 4:00. I told my daughter no thank you. She said dammit mom. I said maybe my number's not up yet.

I like my apartment. 14B. Just, I only have two plates now.

Also, I like using my own feet, the way they flatten on the sidewalk and take turns supporting my weight. The way their steps can be counted, unlike the continual rolling of wheels. And I like the sidewalk itself. Sometimes smooth, sometimes cracked, craggy, ornery, but always damn straight with you; pedestrian, yet treading the weird edge between public and private; ghostly, going everywhere with you but never arriving.

So I got one of those aluminum walkers with a fold-down seat, and I began with one step. Every other day I add a step, and the next day I rest. Now I am up to 152, and I'm sitting on my little seat right outside the Safeway, waiting for the Seaview shuttle to take me back to my apartment. It usually arrives at twelve minutes past the hour. It is now 1:07. It's September again, 304 days since the cast came off and I took my first step on the path to relearning to walk.

The autumn wind gnaws at my stubborn edges.

Just, this aging business. I count up everything I possibly can, it still seems like a countdown.

Tomorrow I will rest. The day after, on Thursday, September 16, I will turn 88. I will take 152 steps to where I am now, and then, one more. Off the sidewalk, into something else.

###

Kimm Brockett Stammen's story collection, In a Country Whose Language I Have Never Mastered, was a finalist for the Iron Horse Book Contest and the 2022 Eludia Award. Her writings have appeared or are forthcoming in Chautauqua, CARVE, Pembroke, and over forty other literary magazines. She holds an MFA from Spalding University.