The Man in the Marketplace

A bearded man sits alone in the marketplace as the afternoon wanes. He wears a worn cap over his head that covers the few straggling hairs that remain stubbornly attached to his scalp. His hands are so wrinkled they look like they are carved from wood. Children send him curious stares as they pass, but no one bothers him, for he wears an expression of deepest sorrow and of deepest guilt.

He has been sitting in the same spot the entire day.

From this spot, and this spot only, he can hear her voice, the clear melody of it rising above the din of the marketplace.


"Papa, don't hurry so. It's before dawn and no customers will be out yet."

"Shut up, you stupid girl. It's laziness that makes you complain."

Tears spring into her eyes. "That's not true, Papa. You know it's not true."


He had called her lazy - his only child, his daughter, his girl - she who had woken at dawn with him every morning since she was a little girl to work the farm.


"Would you keep the wagon straight? It's hard enough keeping this worthless ass in line without having to worry about you dropping my precious crops all over the place."

"I'm trying, Papa. I really am."


He buried his face in his hands, the memory of what had happened etching itself into his mind again and again.


The wagon jolted and his daughter stumbled. The vegetables tumbled out into the street and the girl bent over to pick them up while he yelled curses of fury. She was so preoccupied she didn't see the carriage coming the other way. He himself saw it a second too late…


In memory of his daughter, he sits in the marketplace on the day of her death. He does so, and on that day only, she hears his confession of guilt and love. And sometimes, when he listens carefully, she whispers in his ear...

"I love you, Papa. I love you. And I forgive you."



Word Count: 329