The old market stall holder

Every Saturdays I visit his stall, I buy whatever gorgeous celery or mache he has on display. It is never a quick affair. A brief glance at my watch and I take my space in the queue . I look at his hands. Big hands with half a finger missing. I watch him cut a cabbage with this rustic looking knife…probably the same one that cut his finger off all those years ago. His movements are slow and elegant, I am trying to guess his age, probably 80, his skin is thick like leather. He is now using an old fashion slate and chalk to add up . I should be looking at my watch, I should get the urge to leave but I stay enchanted and sad at the same time. When he stops, when it suddenly becomes too much for him I wonder who will be replacing him if anybody…