So, I’m sitting at a sidewalk table—
having a bagel and coffee,
watching people pass,
planning the rest of the day.
I notice that my lamppost, the one right in front of my table,
has a plaque on its base.
Even stranger, I see it’s placed in a recessed area,
a space clearly designed for just such a purpose.
Apparently the good city fathers purchased lampposts that not only gave light
but also served as a kind of memorial.
Was this in response to a growing need for memorials?
Was the list of requests so long it triggered a domino effect
on the production of municipal lampposts?
There it was:
a dedicated lamppost,
complete with a plaque screwed on after installation.
I could barely read the content, but the title word stood out clearly:
“Attorney.”
Aha.
A memorial for an attorney—
everything he or she had done in life, summarized in one word.
Not “husband,” or “wife.”
Not “father,” or “mother.”
Just… Attorney.
Just as I was pondering this one-word summary—
and just before leaning even farther forward to read the name of the summarized—
I noticed a movement from my left.
A woman approached, walking a small dog.
The dog, on a leash, was clearly pulling to the full extent,
covering as much ground as he could.
He spotted the lamppost,
dug in with his nails on the rough sidewalk,
and made his way to it.
The lamppost is a boundary line.
So he left his mark for other dogs.
As the urine dribbled down across the embossed letters,
I reflected:
It’s good to be alive.
And not memorialized on lampposts.
