***

"Life’s Checkpoints" illustrates how ordinary events—yard work, a walk, a chance meeting—acquire symbolic weight when framed as tests of belonging and identity. Through its layered use of metaphor, vivid imagery, and ironic encounters, the narrative argues that life’s true examinations are not scheduled ceremonies but fleeting moments of recognition and judgment. In both familial and civic contexts, approval is never permanently granted but always subject to renewal. Narrator's short piece thus captures the poignancy of living in constant, quiet readiness for the next unannounced test.

***

Life's Checkpoints

By Harry Arabian

That afternoon, I was in my backyard, raking piles of leaves into mounds that the wind immediately tried to scatter. My mother arrived just as I leaned on the rake, catching my breath. She gave me a look that mixed pride with amusement.

“Still working?” she asked, stepping into the yard.

“There are always more leaves,” I said, trying to sound noble.

We stood for a moment in the crisp air, watching red and gold swirl. It was one of those ordinary moments that somehow felt like a checkpoint in life—her presence alone made the work lighter, as if she’d silently stamped me with approval.

Later, I set off on my health walk toward Victory Field. The air had cooled; evening was settling in. The neighborhood had gone hushed, the kind of quiet where your own footsteps feel loud. That’s when it happened—a firm, commanding voice sliced through the hedge.

“Where are the gardening tools? You were supposed to fetch them from the shed—we’ve only got an hour before it gets dark!”

I froze. The voice tugged at a buried memory. Then he appeared: an old man trudging down the driveway toward the shed, shoulders slouched, arms dangling in pure Larry David fashion. He shuffled like he’d lost an argument with gravity. I almost laughed out loud.

And then she stepped into view—the woman behind the voice. Silver-haired, stern, instantly recognizable. My heart skipped—she was the immigration judge who had interviewed me thirty years ago. The same one who grilled me on why I had waited twenty years to apply for citizenship.

Back then, I had explained that I was busy—with college, work, and raising a family in Watertown. Somehow, that excuse had been enough.

And just like that, she snapped back into interview mode. “Where in Watertown?” she asked, tone crisp, eyes narrowing as if she were holding a clipboard.

I answered automatically, half-expecting her to stamp my forehead. She nodded firmly. “We are neighbors. I live on the same street, by Victory Park.”

It felt official. I had passed the test again. Twice in one day—once with my mother in the backyard, once with the judge by Victory Field. Life, it seemed, did not hand out diplomas; it handed out pop quizzes—delivered at random and graded with a smile or a frown.