Call me crazy, maybe. But Beau’s legs were at the beach with us in Maine.
“Oh, Gal,” you’re probably saying, “those could have been anyone’s dad’s legs.”
No, I tell you. NO! My dad had very distinct legs. I’d know them anywhere. Oh-so white. Oh-so long and slender. Oh-such quirky gargantuan knees. Plus, he had his own remarkable gait that caused his left buttock to rise higher than the right–and somehow stay there.
Beau was 6’6″ and as a pale as a ghost. Only the freckles and the goofy sandals differentiated him from the walking dead. Or, in this particular case, identified him as the walking dead.
David and Allan both said the resemblance was uncanny, unnerving and even a little creepy. My behavior was a little creepy, too, because I said, “Hi, Beau’s legs,” every time they passed by me. I also took about 20 pictures of them. Seeing Beau’s legs made me very happy indeed.
Until the last day, when I was doing the walking. I went past Beau’s legs’ cottage and heard him saying something to someone–it sounded like she was his wife, who seemed to have Alzheimer’s disease or dementia. She was sitting at the dinning room table on their porch and repeating how nice the restaurant was.
I looked through the window at them and then kept on walking with tears in my eyes.
“Goodbye Beau’s legs,” I said to myself. “Goodbye Beau. I have learned to walk onwards without you.”