The old man was hunched over his walker on the garden path, having a tug of war with the wheels of his walker and the pea gravel that barely delineated the pathways in the overgrown, weed strewn expanse of planting beds that hinted of a former hey-day. He was a short man whose middle had increased with every decade, now giving him an egg shaped profile, a ridiculous outline for such a dignified person, dressed in a three-piece suit with a white carnation in his button-hole, a uniform he had worn every day since he first started at the law firm and even on Sundays, like today, while he tended to his garden. At the age of eighty-three he had been retired for twenty years, but his routine had not changed much. He had retained a tiny office at the law firm, where he kept his letters and made himself useful in small ways, bringing in cut flowers from his garden, and keeping an eye on things. But he had let go the office once his walking had become tentative, and now busied himself with his papers at home and an occasional social caller
Greene, Jane Muir
The Tuxedo Archives: Vol. 2013
, Article 8.
Available at: https://scholar.dominican.edu/tuxedolit/vol2013/iss2/8