"Men of Snow"
- Ingrid Michaelson -
The sidewalk crackled and freckled with blemishes of its years in existence resembled her countenance. It wore scars of its endeavors, marks from those who wished to seal their existences in permanence on a square of cinder which had finally, many decades prior, cemented. Words were scribbled with a finger, one would suppose, and a peace sign by another anonymity.
She wore the same marks of existence. Hers were subcutaneous: sub-muscular, even.
She wore them on heart. She wore them on her soul.
The pace of the world did not frighten her. She went on her own, without an aide, without a guide, for a walk around the block. The days when she could climb, fevered, into a vehicle and rush off to a destination were long since gone. Her heart would race just as intensely when she was panicking then as it did when she had finished descending the stairs now.
A step at a time, she would make her way to the end of the street. Her mind wandered, her eyes looking over things she observed nearly every other day for this designated, afternoon walk. There, by the stop sign letting onto a larger road, her daughter first crossed the street holding her hand. On the other side of the street, which she walked on with grass surrounding the only isolated home on in the neighborhood, was where her daughter's daughter first rode her bicycle without training wheels.
This street was where she had her first fight with her first boyfriend. This street was where she came and moved back into when she had her first divorce. This street was the same street that she moved to when she had her second child.
This street was where she would witness her descendants doing the same.
Her hair bathed in the sun. Her locks were cropped to her shoulders. She normally would wear a hat, but with peppered tresses, she had nothing to hide: the fistfuls of locks she once brushed regularly were now naturally curled and wiry. They brandished her innate, tacit wisdom gained over the years.
Around the corner where memories her daughter and granddaughter called to her gleefully she turned.
Down the shorter length of the block, adjacent to the entrance ramp onto a highway, she could see one of her neighbors taking a walk as well.
Her eyes, misty with weariness of eternal perspective, smiled brighter than the muscles in her face could match. There was life in her that sang, something that never would leave her.
He hobbled forth, his pace equally as inhibited. Arthritis panged his entire left side, where a myriad of other happenstances rocked his once-sturdy stature. Physique at peak, the man would dive from over twenty feet in the air to twist and contort his body, sliding into the vast pool beneath without so much as a splash.
His smile was crooked with the dentures that chattered in his jaws.
He removed his hat, a stylish, plaid beret that was tanned like his skin, and waved it surreptitiously. It wasn't until he gasped for another breath from the energy he exerted, slowing his pace to speak with the woman, that he realized that he promised her something the day before. He told her he'd give her her early birthday present.
She insisted that he needn't to give any gifts: her birthday wasn't for another six months.
They blubbered their knowings between one another, allaying and alleviating their minds from the topic.
With a break from their hug and a playful wink, he promised her it would be something she wouldn't forget.
Yet, here he was, without the gift.
She could very well see the sudden disappointment which etched over his face. She kept her spirits high, however: it was a nice day and seeing her dear friend would not put a damper on it in the slightest. In fact, he was much too early for her birthday.
They stopped before the massive house of their late friend. He gestured for her to start on the path to the steps first with chivalrous disposition. She graced him with a grateful hand on his shoulder, bringing him with her as always.
At the stoop, they turned around, and settled down, one after the other. They watched the cars whiz by: mothers tugging their litter around; teenagers swerving through lanes or onto the ramp; and a rarity of grown men without purpose carved into their eyes. There were a few kind souls who looked out the window to find the pair hunched over on their knees, just watching the grass grow with peaceful, content smiles on their faces.
This caused the drivers to look back to the road, an unspoken radiance soon festering their bodies with crackles of warmth.
A bird and its company chirped from a tree down the way by the corner the male had come from. She looked up, her eyes brightened by the sun. He looked over at her, and then to the tree where the birds were settled.
They then consequently focused on a massive cloud which danced its way lethargically across the sky. It was painted funny with brushes of clouds that were all different forms and lengths and sizes and intimacy. Each one stamped upon the cerulean of the ocean's reflection was another they would not recognize the day after.
The man rubbed his bald head with his free hand, cane resting between his legs.
A voice hollered from around the corner. It was young, familiar to them both. A smile graced the man's face before it had spread to the woman's. A six-year-old, with both hands carrying something bigger than his torso, sprinted across the grass, rather than taking the pavement like his grandfather had done. He rushed up, heart pumping and eyes scintillating, and presented the present on the side of his predecessor.
The tiny hands clung to the gift, as though it was his duty to guard it with his life. The man, larger and with a deeper voice merely laughed. They were there, seated on the stoop, and the little trooper came to the rescue. They were very much so different in their approaches to doing so, despite the similar trademarks in their countenances - which reinforced their kinship greatly. With a brief hug between the men - little and grown - the boy then deposited the gift in his grandfather's hands, while his bright, blue eyes inspected the woman alongside him. A shier glimpse of the boy presented itself for a moment.
The woman openly invited him to hug, which heralded the priceless smile any child can wholly give a family friend. In he rushed, knocking a bit of wind from the woman, who laughed with the occurrence. She made remarks of his growth since the last time she saw him - a few weeks ago - and admired the shirt he wore, which was his present, favorite superhero. In a feat of his dedication, the boy rushed back around the corner to his mother's calling, invisible cape flowing after him.
He called something to his grandfather, to which the man replied with a roar of laughter. The woman accompanied him, but clasped her hands together and held them over her knees. She admired the family and watched them grow like her own had.
The man turned to his long-time friend, with a wheezy chuckle, and offered it in his shaking hands.
His sleeves were sliding down to his wrists after the rush of controlled chaos that just bewildered them both. His shoes shimmered in the rays of sunshine at the glorious spring day.
After a bashful and impartial decline of the gift, and his insisting, the woman finally accepted it. He then insisted she open it immediately, before him at that moment, due to their inability to promise to see one another at the time it should be opened.
The box was bigger than her lap. Her skirt draped over her legs, grazing slightly against the pebble-stoned stairs they sat upon. Adjusting the box so that she could open it, with a tug and a blink, the lavender ribbon uncurled. The touches to the present were magnificent, and though it was vast in capacity, its weight did not strain nor exhaust her physical abilities. She set down the box before them both and peeled open the lid, as though it held the secrets of the world.
In it, was his grandfather's bowler's hat, her aunt's scarlet scarf, her father's pipe, three buttons from his worn army jacket, two synthetic branches from the community's holiday trees, and an artificial, wax carrot from the cornucopia. Beneath this heap of stuff she believed to be reminiscent of their youthful years, there was something something else: something she had glued into one of her photo albums.
From this, her misty eyes let beads of tears swell at the corners of her eyes.
And for the first time since she kissed her late husband good night, she laughed and cried at the same time.
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"SHORT"-STYLED ENTRY INSPIRED BY A PROJECT A COUPLE OF AMAZING FELLOWS ARE WORKING ON. FIND IT HERE: [ JESS'S TUMBLR ] FOLLOW HER AS WELL.
<3 ~ Monty.
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