an old man, a bench and his newspaper.

the grey autumn sky swirled and pushed the clouds in wisps and waves like a cat playing at the end of a scarf.  rogue streams of light snuck past and raced to splash upon the ground as if to promise the cooling soil that summer was not yet fully dismissed as if to drive past the brisk air that argued otherwise.  the meandering paths of concrete carried their people from one end of the civic oasis to the other.  everyone was looking down either at their shoes or phones as if their fashion choices or random texts were the most pressing and engaging things that could have ever existed in history when really, it was fear and uncertainty that kept their chins attached to the their necks.

he never really knew what people were so unsure about today.  the old man had grown up in the same neighborhood and aside from a couple years here and there in the world, had spent the last seven decades existing and breathing in this zip code.  as nostalgia always reminded the elder, he recalled with a twinge of longing that time...his time...when things weren't simpler, but when men and women did things that had to be done...and tried to do their best, together with civility and decorum.  in the midst of constant communication zipping through the air and the history of the world's information at their fingertips, it was almost as if people themselves were no longer people but the congruent little colored and black dots that so crisply lit up their screens.

he was always at that bench.  everyday.  from 2-4 pm.  dressed so neatly and intentionally in his tweed jackets, monogrammed oxford shirts, walking cane and neatly pleated pants along with his handkerchiefs always pressed into his jacket's breast pocket...always the handkerchiefs.  he never went anywhere else nor did he seem to meet with anyone...but he always looked like he was about to catch the train for a short holiday or as if he was meeting a college sweetheart.  he would walk towards the bench with a patience that belied his years that still showed glimpses of a yet present strength in his legs if the occasion called for it.  he always had a newspaper neatly folded and tucked under his left armpit as his right hand gently held the walking stick that guided his way.

the wrinkles of his face showed a lifetime of hard work tempered with laughter as evidenced by the crow's feet aside his warm eyes.  his posture remained proud and slightly less able than in his youth, but he fought the creaks and bends of age with a determined grace.  but the thing that stood out to his observers was his face.  it was different.  it wasn't overly warm and welcoming nor was it rejectingly cold and obtuse.  he didn't invite others in nor did he keep them at a distant with the look that so many of contemporary society carry...as if almost always on the verge of annoyance at being interrupted by actual people and life in the vacuous and ironic emptiness of our "full", scheduled and overly shared lives.  he was...present.  he was here.  in the park, on the bench, surrounded by autumn and in the midst of people walking from point to point.  though everything and everyone was going on all around him both locally, globally and existentially...he was here.  completely.

the way that he read his newspaper, neatly held out delicately between his fingertips with the top of carbon pages always lined up with his eyes.  it was as if he wanted to see the world existing in front of him while he read the sometimes substantive yet mostly meaningless words embossed on those temporary pages.  he was so present.  he knew.  he saw.  he smiled.  he observed.  he breathed.  he read...both the pages and the scenes of life playing out in front of him.  nobody else knew maybe, but he did.  he was present.  he was here.  he was there.  he heard and he saw and he drank in the dance of life in the drama of youth and the fatigue of the aged and everything in between.  all of it.  the inane, mindless things done because they had to be done as well as the monumental and the life-defining entanglements that one never realizes the gravity of until it has passed.  he knew.  he was present.

the old man wasn't there at his bench today at 2 pm.  he wasn't there again at 215 nor 230 pm.  by this time, the grey skies and wind bit at your nose with increasing bite and the rays of sun weren't able to sneak by anymore through the impenetrable steel of the winter skies.  maybe he was at home in the comfort of whatever his circumstances were.  he probably wasn't poor nor rich...but well curated in living practically and tastefully with everything in its rightful place for its intended purpose.

but in the spring.
he wasn't going to be there.
he wasn't there.
the man that was always present.
no longer was.

the jacket, the cane, the newspaper and the bench were all absent from the half acre of green, grey and brown that he had so easily graced with his presence.

and though the world doesn't know it...or even realize what it is missing.
the world is lesser by his absence.

an old man, a bench and his newspaper.

inspiration: self-pity

"i never saw a wild thing sorry for itself.
 a small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
 without ever having felt sorry for itself."

- d.h. lawrence

loving her, piecemeal.

i tried loving her only when she was at her best. 

but it was too hard to time and guess what state she was in, and she seemed to resent the fact that i was so fair-weather.  and then she told me that if i didn't love her at her worst, i didn't deserve her at her best...much like how the goldsmith finds the rough and dirt-speckled gold fleck just as valuable and beautiful as the shiny and well-formed golden ring.

so i tried loving her only when she was at her worst. 

but she said that she didn't need a savior, just a companion and partner.  and she told me that she wasn't a charity case or a lost damsel in need of rescue, she didn't want to be valued because she satisfied someone else's savior complex, but because she was enough, just being her. 

so i told her to come and see me when she felt like it then. 

but she said that if i didn't know what i wanted, that she wasn't enough nor wanted to be someone to "figure myself out" on.  she said that a relationship was two imperfectly formed people trying to find the Wholeness as one.  and that just because I wasn't fully "out" didn't mean that I was fully "in".  she didn't want or need perfection, but she did ask for trying my best for her best.
 
no matter how hard i tried, argued, pried and reasoned...she wouldn't have it.

so i fitfully came to the conclusion that what she wanted, and what I was running away from, was to be loved wholly, in the good and the bad, not necessarily perfectly (because that was impossible she said) but with everything that I could muster.

she didn't want or need a knight in "shining armor", because one who's armor still shines in the sun means that they have not yet been in battle nor faced hardship. so his gallantry, courage and persevering heart was only present in theory like so many falsely confident boys who have yet to do anything of substance.  but the one in slightly shimmering armor speckled with the experience of dents, arrows and dried blood, though unappealing at first sight, underneath it holds the conviction of having stared the storm in the face, in all its fury, and yet came through anointed in the baptism of fire.

so i tried loving her.  again.  and tomorrow, i'll pursue her once more.

she stepped into the light.

it was time to wake up.  her alarm told her.  

she could feel the cool morning air snipping at the end of her nose.  did she leave her window open last night?  there was a snap to its cold as she inhaled the breeze through the edge of her nostrils, feeling the air slowly warm as it traveled through her sinuses to her throat and finally into her lungs.  winter was coming.  

reaching out for her clothes hanging on her dresser to her right, she fumbles with the sweater on top and hears the swish and gentle plop of the clothes hitting the floor in a quietly soft cascade that ended in a satisfying thump.  she always tried to multi-task and failed.  but today, she knew her attention had to be sharp and focused, it was a day of firsts. 

she slowly made her way into the bathroom, feeling her surroundings with a growing confidence with each passing step.  the water was finally the right temperature, the cool air snapped against her exposed lower back and she slowly spun into the shower so that the water would remedy the hairs raising on her back.  leaning her head back into the stream of steam and water, she inhaled slowly and imagined the sidewalk gleaming whiter than usual because of the late autumn morning sunlight.  35 steps to the first crosswalk.  the button to cross would be to the on the post hopefully to the left.  the cold metal button beckoning for her.  so forth and so on.  

it was a day of firsts. 

she steps out of the shower and feels for the mischievous towel that always seems to try and elude her.  finally feeling the corner with her damp finger tips, she steps into the warm embrace of her forgetful friend.  patting her mouth dry in her habit of thinking, she experienced a pang of anxiety.  so many more impossible tasks to do before she found the door.  getting dressed from the gentle pile of clothes now in front of the dresser.  discovering her shoes which where hopefully where she left them...and secretly, hoping that they matched her outfit.  but despite her building anxiety, she knew that he would be waiting.  he was always waiting.  today, at the cafe for brunch 110 steps and 2 turns, a right and a left, away.  his soft face and smell, that smell of citrus and wood that she loved so much, quelled her anxiety.  she would because she could.  and because she knew that he waited patiently for her, knowing that she would come...that she could come...

loitioned.  hair hastily dried.  teeth brushed.  dressed.  shoes found and put on.  it was her ballet "burch" pair that was nude so she was confident that she would be put together head to toe.  hair brushed.  bag found.  essentials located inside. 

she asked google what time it was.  she was 10 minutes late.  she quickly spoke off a text to him telling him that she was on her way.  "text message sent".  thank you phone.  she was ready.  should she close the window now?  no, she wanted to air out the room, she would close it later.  she was now, ready. 

she reached for the door.  that elusive stainless steel latch with the lock right above it.  she slowly reached towards the air she felt sneaking it's way through the slits of the doorway.  found it.  one last mental look around the room.  one last mental check of her bag.  

she was ready.  

now.  

again. 

she firmly opened the door and stepped into the cool morning air with a little snap at the end of her nose, winter was coming.  she felt hugged by the warm sunlight that she felt enveloping her body.  and as her hair rose at the edge of the wind's fingers, she stepped into the warm glow of the morning sunlight.  she was 10 minutes late.  and she had an unsure 110 steps and 2 faith-filled and smell guided turns to make.  her anxiety turned to confidence as she remembered the waiting citrus and wood.  

and she began her first 35 steps to the crosswalk.