This morning it was winter when I walked along the lake: snow matted on the Oquirrh Mountains. I wore a red wool coat and scarf and kept my hands in my pockets. Canadian geese stood in the shallows, some of them sleeping with heads buried back in their own down. Goslings swam into the lake's center when I strolled by.
I passed other walkers, some in pairs, some alone. We exchanged muttered greetings making the briefest eye contact.
I prefer walking alone.
Many years ago, I walked with my friend, Elizabeth. Fast walking. You know the kind--where you look like idiots with the elbows waving up and down. We chattered like magpies about marriage, lust, religion, children, silver patterns--what have you. She is the only person I've ever walked with. The only person I ever got up early to meet.
Then my ankle went south and I couldn't walk. Period.
Now I can walk again, although not fast walking, and I keep my elbows at my side. I like my own silent company, since I rarely speak aloud and tell the truth at the same time. Better to be silent and hear the geese's muted squawks to each other.