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.
