Maximilian

Maximilian

His accent is Swiss, still resonant through his
faultless diction, his obvious command of a
wide and distinguished English vocabulary. An
elegant, dignified, even courtly man of advanced
years. Ours, the most casual of relations, simply
another soul we see on occasion, rambling through
our neighbourhood woods. That place beloved
of those in the community who value proximity
to nature. And he, like we, is one of those.

His bodily frame is that of an aesthete, chest
concave, though his posture is not. He might have
been, in younger years, an academic, a scientist, for
he has that myopic air about him. A sweet-mannered
man, a shy smile and soft voice. No one could
doubt his touchingly grave sincerity.

His manner of dress elicits unspoken concern
for his comfort, for we who are aged coevals,
mindful of such required weather-comforts note
such lapses. He exudes a certain air of poignancy
of one whose well-being has been neglected. His
red jacket insufficiently robust for the cold, the icy
wind; too loosely open at collar, his nose too red,
his sparse-haired head too insubstantially covered.
Our two little dogs are coated with more care than he.

Maximilian, for such he is, now well recovered
from a heart 'episode', agrees when we speak of the
excellent level of professional care received at area
hospitals. His pale blue eyes water in the wind as his
head shakes his solemn affirmation. Could we take
the liberty we would wind a downy wool scarf about
his bared and scrawny neck, exchange his worn mittens
for a hardier pair. He volubly details his recent trauma.

Where, in recovery, both he and wife were admitted
to an nursing home for three months he was in
need of therapeutic remediation. His wife there too,
entirely dependent on his close ministrations to her
daily needs. Matter of factly, he is grateful for health
restored and the full recovery of life's quotidian certainties.
Grasping his two poles tightly he sets off again on his
ramble, wishing us in ours, a very good day.