To Be Young Again

         The old man sat on the park bench throwing seed to the pigeons and occasional squirrel. It was a beautiful summer day and the old man basked in the sunshine and marveled at the world around him. He watched the people who strolled past: alone, together, with a stroller or a dog; he turned to see the ducks swim in the pond and the children play in the playground. He watched the world spin around him and smiled, wishing he could take part like he used to, but content with the simple role he played.

         Eventually one of the children at the playground caught his eye. It was a little boy, about eight, and he was sitting by himself watching the other children play. The boy looked melancholy, his sadness hanging on him in a way that was almost physical. He turned toward the old man, as though aware he was being watched. Their eyes met, and held. The little boy stood up and carefully picked his way across the playground, never taking his eyes off the old man. As he approached the bench, the pigeons scattered and the boy stopped, standing on the outskirts of the scattered seed. He looked at the old man with a completely neutral expression. Neither of them said a word for the first few minutes; finally, the boy spoke.

         “Why were you watching me?” The old man paused for a moment, absorbing the sound of the boy’s voice. Although it was the voice of a child, it sounded different somehow, older.

         “Well?” He was impatient now, waiting for the old man to answer. Youth, he thought, and smiled.

         “You looked sad, I was simply wondering why.”

         The boy shook his head, “You wouldn’t understand.”

         “Try me.” Peter smiled at the boy.

         The boy looked at the man suspiciously for a moment, as though deciding whether or not to trust him. “Why do you care?”

         “I’ve lived a long life boy, I may be of some help. Have a seat.” The old man patted the bench seat and smiled. The boy did not return the smile, but he did sit. “Now, let’s start with introductions. My name is Peter Marlowe.” He offered the boy his right hand. The boy looked at the hand for a moment before taking it. He squeezed it briefly, listlessly.

         “Timmy.”

         “Well Timmy, how old are you?”

         “Nine.”

         “Only nine huh?” Peter looked at the little boy and smiled. The smile was not returned. “What does a nine-year-old have to be so sad about?”

         Timmy looked at the old man with a mixture of surprise, disbelief and disgust. “What does a nine-year-old have to be so unhappy about? How old are you Mr. Marlowe?”

         “Seventy-Five.”

         “And at seventy-five you still don’t see the futility of it all?”

         Peter was taken aback, surprised to hear such a word from a nine-year-old boy.

         “What do you mean Timmy?”

         “Life Mr. Marlowe. Life. The futility of life itself. What is the point? You’re born, you die, and a bunch of total nonsense happens in between. What is the point Mr. Marlowe?

         Peter was completely stunned. He had been sitting sideways on the bench while he spoke to the boy, but now he turned and faced forward. He watched the ducks swim on the pond while he thought about what the boy had said. Timmy stared at the old man’s profile, patiently waiting for an answer.

         Peter suddenly smiled, he turned to Timmy, “What about all the beauty life has to offer?” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, encompassing the park scene around him.

         “Beauty? What is beautiful that will not die? That will not fade and grow ugly with time? Even Michelangelo’s David will someday be only dust.”

         “But why think these things? Why allow yourself to see the beauty fade? Enjoy it while it’s here.”

         “Live in the present, eh Mr. Marlowe?” Peter turned to look at the boy and saw a distorted smirk on his face. “By living in the present you forget the lessons of the past and lose the dreams for the future.”

         Peter sighed, “But by always looking forward, and not seeing what is here before you now, you will lose your focus.”

         “Or gain it.”

         “What about love?”

         “Any person I love will someday leave me, or I will leave them. What is the point of loving someone when you know it will cause you pain?”

         Peter simply looked at the boy, at a complete loss for words. How could he respond? How could he help this boy see the simple joys life had to offer? He couldn't, Peter had simply not lived long enough. Peter sighed and stood up.

         “I guess I was wrong, Timmy. I don’t think I can be of help. But I do hope you learn to see life differently and revel in the simplicity of it.” He stretched out his hand and the boy took it. This handshake was no more full of life than the first. Peter Marlowe turned and walked away, hoping he would never develop such bitterness towards life.

         Timmy watched the old man walk away and smiled. He remembered what it was like to see life in that manner: new, exciting, and beautiful. Although Mr. Marlowe was an old man the youth of his soul was the reason for his joy. Sighing deeply, Timmy lamented his dissatisfaction with life, knowing that pointless melancholy was his lot in life, this time.