Observations |
Andrew sits, alone, at the end of the bench. It is old, grass-green paint peeling. As the man shifts, loose nails or screws complain in squeaky, rusty voices. The sun beams down on a mostly bald head, weathered, wrinkles etched deep, a few tufts of iron-grey hair stubbornly clinging on for dear life and an ancient, time-blurred tattoo of a mermaid, its tail curled 'round his neck. He stretches his long, jean-clad legs out, crossed at the ankles, just about a pair of well-worn hi-top Keds sneakers with frayed laces dangling down to the sidewalk. He holds a small, brown paper bag and shares his peanuts with two robins and a squirrel. A smile reveals too-white dentures as he laughs silently at the young boy upending himself on the monkey bars. He shares another nut. Across the expanse of the park, Mrs. Laganworth arrives, walking her white Bichon who has muddy feet because he loves puddles. Fridays, he goes to the groomer, so she doesn't mind overmuch. The dog, using all the lead she will give him, sniff at winter-worn leaves, wriggles in ecstacy at the passerby's quick pet and makes a beeline to the far off bench. She tries a different direction but the dog is equally determined. He loves peanuts. And Andrew. Mrs. Laganworth smooths her hair. She has nothing against that old reprobate on the bench --he just makes her uncomfortable what with his compliments and other foolishness. And yet, as I've noticed, she always seems to come when he's there, and he always pats the bench next to him in invitation. I wonder, if this will be the day when she takes him up on his invitation. She hasn't before, but, one can hope, I suppose. But no. They exchange a few words, a smile or two and the dog, Clancy, I believe his name is, performs his tricks in anticipation of treats to come. Then he's anxious to continue his adventure and Mrs. Laganworth trails along behind him. She cuts through the park, regains the sidewalk and heads towards home. She's tired now and longs for a cup of tea and, perhaps, a nap. Andrew watches until she walks out of sight. I come to the park and sit here in the gazebo most every day. I write in my old notebook of things I think or just observe. It's a good place to pass the time and there's always something to inspire a poem, to fill another page. Andrew ambles over, forsaking his bench. "Perhaps, maybe, I should get me a dog." I smile, pat the bench and he sits, stretching out his long legs. "Whatcha writin' there?" "Just another poem," I respond before asking, "Why the mermaid?" He grins and says it's a long story, but suffice to say because he believes in the impossible. We both smile at that. An easy silence stretches between us and then he stands and ambles off. I'll see them both tomorrow, I suppose. I finish a poem and then head home myself. I love living in a small village. You can almost tell the time by who's in the park. |