Driving down the snaky road, almost heading home, I look to my right and see a man in a wheelchair, parked in front of the rehabilitation center. He halfway waved his hand at me, and I returned the same gesture. Days later, I have seen him, pushing the wheels so he can move about down the snaky road. Each passing car, he would wave, hoping to get someone to stop for him. What does he seek? A Cigarette? Money perhaps? Still, he trudges on, wearing the same gray jacket, dirty white t-shirt and black sweatpants.

My Husband makes his way to go to work at 6 a.m., when he spots the man in the wheelchair, continuing to journey up and down the road. Even more days later, I drive and find him on the main road, perched on a median, anticipating for a car so he can wave them down. Lately, I haven’t seen him. Maybe he was able to get a ride. Maybe he got what he needed. At night, I no longer see him grazing up and down the road in hope to find a car to slow down. Was he even real? It remains a mystery, unless he reappears.