There is a painting that walks ahead of me on the trail. Normally I would be eager to pass these aging men, but my anxious feet are overruled and I slow to take it all in. Maybe it’s the hats. Or the synchronized position of hands clasped behind their backs, heading them “heart-first.” 

When I’m close enough for them to hear my graveled steps, I pick up the pace. We exchange smiling bonjours, and the day will continue down different roads. I won’t learn their names, these hatted men. Having been in their path is enough. 

Maybe it was a different time, but my grandfather wore a hat. There was something trustworthy about it. Elegant, even in overalls. I trusted it — him. I suppose that’s why I trust it still. Because what’s taught is what’s known. And maybe that’s what empathy is, what humanity is, walking in the path of others, heart-first.