When I lived in downtown Marietta, I'd often walk to the corner store for snacks. Halfway there, sat an old, shirtless, plump man on his porch. His name was Henny.
Henny would say some of the oddest things to my brothers and me as we passed. Whether he was merely enjoying the lack of accountability that often is afforded the aging, or was conducting his own social experiment, I never knew. Often I would be hailed as the "candyman" as I walked by.
Once while passing, he called out "Your mom's in the hospital!" By this time I had caught on to Henny, may have given him a nod or a half hearted "Oh," but just kept walking, quite confident that my mom was not, in fact, in the hospital. My confidence may have been bolstered by having just been at home minutes prior, and having seen my mom, unhospitalized. Regardless, he didn't fool me.
And then one day, he passed away.