Greif

There are certain things you cannot know, that happen so suddenly, your life can never go back to the way it was. A bomb tears your limbs to pieces, a car crashes, people live and people die. The world screams and you are silent. There are other things, that happen, not quite so suddenly, and you are left wondering why it did.

         There is a man sitting at the bench, tall and meaty, who leans back with a sack of seeds and bread balanced on his belly which rolls over to his lap. He has curly grey hair, blue eyes, a thin, white t-shirt that isn’t tucked in and hasn’t been washed. Car keys hang from his pocket, and beside the key there is a picture that is hardly looked at. He is the man who is recognized by the birds in the park, the birds who, immediately fly to him with eager vigor.

         He is the reason they stay for one day longer, the reason the signs are posted everywhere reading 'don’t feed the animals'. Signs which he ignores, weather deliberately or simply because he does not see them, is anyone’s guess. Occasionally, someone will sit next to him, and lean over to catch his attention, and point at the signs near by, some will tap at his shoulder as they’re passing and nod to it, others roll their eyes, others smile and keep on walking. These people are also ignored. His attention is on the birds, the ones who climb on him, the ones who sit by his feet yapping with happy impatience. He has a name for these. Carl, for the one who climbs to his shoulder, Emma for the one who sits on his knee, and Sarah for the one who jumps excitedly on the ground beneath him. There are others, who also get fed, but these are the ones he knows best, the ones who get fed first, and petted, and follow him on the way to call a cab.

         He stays until the sun sets. Even when he finished feeding, the food bag empty, as other birds leave, Carl, Emma, and Sarah remain. He doesn’t shoo them until later, with a loud ‘bah!’ to scare them. Used to this, the birds don’t move. He stands, shoos them away with his hands, and gives a loud bark. They still don’t move. Emma has flown to his  other shoulder by now, and Carl digs his tiny toes into his shirt. Emma simply walks behind them, now full and worried. She nips at his feet, the way a dog might. He mutters to himself, but doesn’t kick her away as he heads to his last stop for the day.

         A tree far bigger than any other in the park lies curled and branches long, with leaves lined by the sunset orange. He has to squint to see. He keeps on walking, just past the tree where a pile of stones are laid carefully on top of another, with a cross dug into the ground. Emma takes off here, and lands on top of the stick, while Carl and Sarah follow her.

         He scowls at them, but lets them have their place. With a strong, meaty hand, he reaches into his back pocket, and places the key against the three stones laid around the cross. There is a picture here, of a woman smiling, with long brown hair, a wrinkled face, and the most beautiful eyes he ever saw. The picture is encased in glass, like sleeping beauty. He can’t help but let a tear spill. With a grunt, he turns away, rubs against his eyes, his lips pursed with grief.