The Old Man

By
More by this author
The old man took his usual spot—the sturdy bench at the south side of the park. He loved watching families and individuals make their way through the bustling courtyard; it was like a utopia to him. Planning to hang around for awhile, he even brought bread to feed the pigeons.

It was still early—the sun had just risen—so not many people were out quite yet. The old man immediately noticed the usual schism between those exercising and those on a nice stroll to work; the businessmen walked casually on the sidewalk in their professional attire while athletes sprinted through the freshly cut grass. A group of runners emerges from the west—one runner, smiling, ostentatiously sprints ahead of his entourage. The group notices his sudden sense of competition and race to catch up. The old man laughs.

It is well past eight o’clock now. A mother walks by, scolding her fractious child, and he replies, “Sorry, Mom,” in an especially timorous tone. A jaunty cluster of sixth-graders, on their way to school, greet the old man as if it is a daily occurrence. The man smiles.

The man’s time in the park was truncated by a consistent rainfall, a weather the old man has a strong anathema towards. He walks to his high-rise apartment building. The flamboyant doorman opens the wide, glass door as the man hurries inside. A good morning ruined by bad weather, the man thinks to himself. He shakes his head, as if to expunge it from his mind, but stops, realizing that he needs to learn to appreciate each day for what it is.





Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback