The Long RoadA Story by HoWiE This was a story that came to me when I was living in London in 1993. I used to see an old man at the same time, same place every day on my way to the tube station...
I saw him again today, leaning into the wind, his eyes screwed up and his mouth a tight line of determination. With his arthritic fingers curled round the lapels of his weathered tweed jacket, pulling it tight against the cold, he hobbled along, his eyes tearing against the elements. The blustery breeze snatched smoky whorls of breath from his mouth and whipped them over his shoulder. His lips quivered blue and chapped. His watery eyes were rheumy and distant beneath his hooded lids, fixed upon the gate at the end of the long road. A shock of white hair escaped from the side of his hat and fluttered wildly as the old man sought to pull down on the brim with his free hand.
Every Sunday morning at nine, come rain or shine, for as long as I can remember I have seen him struggle up the winding path that leads to the park. So many times I think he might not make it, that he may stumble or one day decide that his legs will no longer carry him. Last week he brought bread for the ducks and I watched him tear off small chunks and flick his wrist in their direction, an odd look on his face. In the summer he would wear a flower in the lapel of his tweed jacket and his eyes would not seem so tired, his chin would be tilted higher and he would clasp his hands behind his back.
Today, unusually, he paused at the park entrance and his gnarled fingers traced the rust-flecked wrought ironwork of the gate. He stared back down the road and a curious flicker of what could only have been a smile, tugged at the corner of his mouth. Finally, he hauled himself past the gate and wandered into the park where he would be shielded by the curling tree line. Once out of the wind, he relaxed the steadfast grip on his lapels and pulled a crumpled posy of flowers from the confines of his creased jacket. He made a fuss of straightening the things with his shaking hand before continuing on his way.
Once at the bench, he fidgeted in his pocket for a small bag of bread pieces and slowly lowered himself onto the bench before scattering the food on the ground before him. He removed his hat and folded it and placed it in his lap before carefully laying the posy on the weather-cracked woodwork beside him. Leaning over gingerly he licked at the tip of his thumb and smeared it over a small plaque embedded on the back of the seat, worrying at the verdigris there. Satisfied, he straightened up and clasped his hands in his lap to stare out across the lake before closing his eyes against the hazy sun with a smile.
For so many years I have watched him come here, week after week, year after year, climbing the long road to the place where we used to sit and feed the ducks. So many times I wanted to reach out to him and let him know that I was there, that I had always been there, right beside him, all this time.
When I opened my eyes, he was staring right at me. He saw me, he was young again and the sun was shining...
Music taken from the Main Theme from Legends of the Fall. © 2018 HoWiEAuthor's Note
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HoWiEPlymouth,, Devon, United KingdomAboutWell, I'm back - it only took 8 years to get over my writer's block! Now 47, older, wiser and, for some reason, now a teacher having left the Armed Forces in 2012. The writing is slow going but .. more..Writing
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