But Not For Me

The old man wore the same red cap he always did when taking walks in the park. His wife had given it to him, many years before, as a gift for his retirement, and even though it was old and rough on his ears he wore it still. There was a small hole in the back of it, not even perceptible unless it was pointed out, but the old man knew it would grow and soon enough he would be forced to put the cap away. Until then, he thought, I’ll make the most of it.

His wife had died a few years before. It had since been long enough that her death didn’t move him, at least not in the way it once had. If he was entirely sincere, he would say that her death hadn’t ever really moved him much, no more than the death of some of his friends. That was the best description for their relationship — friends. He doubted she really loved him, and he had never really been in love with her. They both had known this early on, before they had even thought of getting married, but they got on phenomenally well and she was a wonderful person, and so he had married her despite not loving her. He didn’t regret it as much as he had once worried he would. She left a mark on him, a good, kind one, and he paid his respects by wearing the red cap when he took his walks.

It was spring, and in the park the trees were blossoming in beautiful, light spring colors. A soft wind played gently through the buds, creating a soft, papery sound which was sometimes outdone by the songs of birds perched in the branches. The melody of the park put his mind to rest. He took a walk every day in the spring, at this same time, and it was perfect. There were hardly ever any children on the playground with school in session, and only a few runners and bikers exercised this late in the day. The afternoon heat was tempered by the breeze into timid warmth, perfectly accommodating his jacket and cap. When the old man went on these spring afternoon walks, he would often smile to himself and think of nothing at all, besides, perhaps, the beauty of the blooming buds and the simplicity of the birdsong.

On this particular day he’d spotted two runners and another old man, who sometimes came and sat on a bench and fell asleep. The old man with the red cap was glad that he retained more energy than many his age, that he was able to take nice springtime walks and live on his own. He had two children, both with families of their own. There was no need to intrude upon their lives — his parents had mostly kept to themselves until they died, and he planned to do the same. An old man who surrounds himself with young people, he thought, was living in a delusion.

Other than the two bikers and the napping man, he was alone with his birds and blossoms, and felt entirely in a state of tranquil humility as he examined the trees’ youthful coloration. He wasn’t thinking of anything much in particular — nothing beyond a simple what a pretty bud. 

He continued on his way around the paved trail, surrounded by trees on either side. The afternoon sun backlit the blossoms to his right, creating a thin halo around the rosy protrusions. One bird he couldn’t see cycled through the same few melodic tones. He turned his eyes to the trail ahead of him, and noticed the patterns created by the shadow the of the blossoms atop the black pavement. Immediately a memory, vague and shapeless, shot to his attention.

He was in Atlanta, or maybe Nashville, and he was young. He must have been selling trumpets door-to-door at the time, bumming around the South and living on the whatever profit he could make. It was a terrifically hot day, and he remembered dabbing his forehead with an old handkerchief as he strolled along the city sidewalks. He came upon a park, not unlike the one he was walking through now, and had detoured to find some cover from the scaldingly furious afternoon sun.

Trees bordered the trail around that park, too, and he’d meandered along the path, letting the cool shade cover him and temper the heat. He took deep, calm breaths, and eventually stopped to set his pack of trumpets down and recline against a tree. A few people were having picnics in the park, far away from him on the other side of the field under a metal-roofed pavillion. He shut his eyes for a necessary nap.

As he did so, a shriek rang out and his calm was disrupted. When he opened his eyes he saw a girl on a bicycle in front of him, holding one hand over her chest and her face somewhere between laughing and crying. He jumped up and asked her what was wrong, and when she turned her head to look at him he was instantly taken by her beauty. 

Now, as he recalled this chance encounter, no exact features came to mind. Her hair, her eyes, her mouth — he knew them to be beautiful, but he couldn’t recollect how.  He didn’t remember her name, or if he had asked her what it was, for that matter. Perhaps he had asked her if she was alright and she had said yes and, just as quickly as they’d met, they parted ways as she pedaled off. He certainly didn’t remember why she had screamed. All that remained in his memory was her beauty. Perhaps I could have loved her, he thought.

A biker rushed past the old man and he was shaken from his memory as quickly as he had been dropped in the midst of it. A few birds rushed up from the trees above him, crying out as they did so, probably startled by the sudden movement of the biker. The old man watched as they rose up and flew away, further and further from him until the trees ahead blocked his view and they were gone. He frowned, and continued on his way.