Familiarity

Now you think of it, it's been quite a while
 since you last saw him and shared one of those 
casual, neighbourly conversations over the back 
fence. Even so you can hardly credit that to 
your inability to recognize old Bob, he looks so
-- odd. Odd, which is to say old, weary, lined
nowhere near like the Bob you know -- thought
you knew. Clearly he is not himself. You think.
You saw someone struggling to push a stroller
child within, up a steep hill on an urban forest
trail where you like to take your leisure and
people like Bob never do. You stood at the crest
of the hill, speaking with another hiking familiar
when your attention swivelled to that slow agony
of ascent, the man grappling with the stroller
the child alert to its surroundings and you
partially descend to confront the man and offer
help when that old face began to resemble
Bob's, and the voice that extruded its gravel
pitch resembled Bob's and bloody-damn! if it
wasn't Bob! Whose slow verbal delivery was
newly unfamiliar, just as unfamiliar as that new
rendition of a long-familiar face. So you chat
and complete the ascent together, and Bob
rambles into a one-sided conversation and you
respond and commiserate about the difficulties
inherent in grandparents aiding children with
their grandchildren when the marriage implodes
because you're familiar with that syndrome but
though you were fully immersed in it, the strain
failed to sap any remaining vestiges of youth
and vigour and capacity to think and to emote.