A Wait in the Park on a Snowy Evening

I reach down and smooth my silky red skirt over my thighs so it flares just right and fans out slightly on the bench. I don’t mind wearing something this light during winter if it’s for a good cause. And this is a good cause. It’s cold and the sky is threatening to snow, but there has not been a single flurry. I move my lips into the shape of an “o” and blow out a puff of air. I watch the cloud of warm breath dissipate. In my mind, I’m a statue. Marble, delicate, yet enduring. Michelangelo’s “David” stood outside the Palazzo Vecchio in the Piazza della Signoria for approximately 369 years. I can sit on this bench for 36 minutes.

Some would say I am in my element here among the ice and snow. I never argue that point. Ice is a temporary state of water. A potentially deadly one. Ice is deceiving. Sometimes it appears stronger than it is and coaxes one out onto its surface, only to give way and plunge its intruder into inky, frigid depths. Other times, it hangs in sharp shards off of surfaces, glistening in the sun. I think my favorite has always been black ice. Ice so thin and smooth it often escapes notice. Until it’s too late. We have long winters here, filled with ice and snow. Winter is often a grim and solemn season. The overcast, shortened days provide minimal sunlight and the elements are always catching someone off guard. When I was in third grade, three of my classmates drowned one winter. They fell through the thin coating of ice on Hartfield Pond. It was late November, too early in the season to skate. There’s always someone who forgets that each year.  

Once, my cousin threw a snowball right at my face. It hit my nose with a force I wasn’t expecting. The chill of the ice and snow faded into warmth as blood streamed down my face. His mother came running outside and chastised him. Once the initial shock wore off I couldn’t feel any of it anymore. I just watched the thick, red drops of blood fall onto and through the snow, a juxtaposition of two colors and two temperatures. It was fascinating.

Sitting on this bench brings to mind a poem by Robert Frost, “Fire and Ice.” I think he’s wrong. I don’t think it’s necessary to choose.  

I readjust myself slightly on the bench. I unclasp and clasp my hands. I inhale air so cold it burns my throat. The park is deserted. I used to find it curious how natives of a place so cold avoid the outdoors in the winter. Now, I just feel thankful for the quiet and privacy.  

This park is as alive in the spring as it is dead in the winter. To get to my bench I passed through much of it. The green basketball court has ice filling its cracks, a few small half-frozen puddles where the surface dips and water collects. The play equipment is clean - the clean that comes from periodic coatings from rain and snow and the absence of human touch. The few patches of grass visible are stiff and often coated with frost. The river is still moving. The force of the water is too great for significant ice cover. Most of the time. The bushes lining the path by the river are bare with spindly branches. Every now and then a cardinal alights on one and the red catches my eye. The wind blows and I swear I can smell snow. I close my eyes and imagine the feel of it, soft and cold. I’ll be surprised if it doesn’t snow today.

The park has changed over the years. I will concede that point. The rusty monkey bars upon which I sliced my palm at age six have been replaced with something large and plastic. I suppose no more mothers will take a look at their bleeding child and rush home to ask the doctor the date of the most recent tetanus shot. That was the day I first realized blood and metal have something in common. The summer heat brought out the metallic smell of both.

Some things have not changed. The bench under me, for example. This wrought iron bench is the same one. Some of the benches have been replaced, but this one has remained. It’s my favorite. Even during its busiest days the park is quiet back here. A few weeping willow trees on either side provide a bit more privacy during the warmer months. This part of the path by the river is more remote. During warmer months the grass is often overgrown at this spot.  

Our first kiss happened on this bench. The memory of it warms me. We were both shy high school sophomores. Embarrassed by both our desire and the knowledge that by most of our peers’ standards, we were a bit old for this moment.

“I love you,” he said on this bench. His hand was warm in mine and he met my eyes as he softly spoke the words. I force my jaw to relax. I take a few deep breaths, relishing the feel of the cold air on my throat.   

No one is in the park with me. I am alone on this bench with my thin red skirt smoothed over my thighs and flared out to either side of me. My hands are clasped in my lap over my small purse. The sky is a collage of grays. There is a slight wind. I wait.  

Change is inevitable. I have accepted this. Growing older each year is change. The endless progression of seasons is change. Each day our skin sheds thousands of cells and produces thousands of new ones. I understand change. I also understand how to remain steadfast. How to keep my balance on mossy rocks as the river rushes by me.  

Change. The word makes my stomach curdle. Some tout change as a form of magic, of instant self-betterment.    

“I’ve changed,” he said, his palms resting softly on my shoulders. “We’ve grown apart.” A convenient excuse for someone who’s decided he’s gotten all he wants from someone else. Maybe it would have been different if he stopped with that vague excuse. But he didn’t. He brought up issues of sophistication, cosmopolitan pursuits. Valid passports and coastal bars with decades of history. He assumed a lot. I tried to speak and he shushed me. He placed a finger against my lips and made the sound one makes when shushing a child. Those moments existed the same way I exist. Those moments are the catalyst that brought me to this park, this bench.  

My statuesque self has been here for far less time than “David” stood outside in the Piazza. If his marble eyes could see he would have known he was gawked at, standing there naked before crowds. I wonder how many of his visitors tried to chip away at him and keep a piece for themselves. People love souvenirs. Now, he is inside the Galleria dell’Accademia. Voyeurs may come to gawk, but they will never come close to owning a piece of him again.  

A gust of wind blows a strand of hair over my face. I reach a hand up to place it behind my ear. The day is overcast, but it is still evident that the light is dimming and night approaching. I shift where I am sitting and recross my ankles. I can wait. Patience is a virtue.  

I imagine a clock ticking the seconds away. The same dull tick each time. It’s a sound capable of driving one mad. I can tell by the sky it won’t be much longer.

A spot of wetness blooms on my hand. I look down to see the remnants of a snowflake melting on my skin. I look up to see the snow. It’s just beginning. I imagine these early snowflakes giving way to a steady rush. A few hit my skirt turning the fabric darker in spots. I feel some land on my hair, my eyelashes. These early snowflakes seem tentative. They fall gently and melt quickly.

He approaches, a slight figure adorned in dark clothing. Distant, at first, but recognizable. The sun is behind him and throws his face into shadow though the day is overcast. I remain still. At one point in history, soldiers were trained not to fire until they saw the whites of the enemy’s eyes. I know he is wearing a thin coat. I believe vanity is a factor in that. Some focus on appearances even when it is a detriment to their well-being. I imagine how he must feel when the wind blows, the cold air slipping between the fibers of the coat and piercing his pale skin.

The snow is starting to pick up. I resist brushing the flakes off my hair and my shoulders. I am counting on the weather and season to influence the paleness of my skin.  

He is smiling brightly as he approaches. I remain sitting. He makes a show of clasping his hands together and blowing into his palms to warm them. He grins at me. A few steps more and he will be close enough to touch.

“Hey,” he calls out jovially. Jovial. Not a care in the world. “I knew you’d come around.” He flashes a bright smile. I feel the corners of my mouth uptick in a strained smile in return. I meet his eyes. “It’s always so good to see you, you know?” he continues. “Everyone else’s always moving and changing. It’s good to know you’re right here, where I left you.” I let the smile freeze onto my face. Where I left you. I am reminded of dolls on the floor of my playroom. Unless someone came and touched them they remained precisely where I left them. I breathe in deeply.  

I know him. I have known him. He believes himself to be the pinnacle of sophistication, maturity. Some things though, never truly change. I give him a shy look and move to stand up. I allow my purse to slide off my lap and onto the frosted grass below. He gives me a crooked smile and bends over to retrieve it. I slide my right hand under the edge of my skirt as I stand up.

“Oomf,” he utters as he falls forward. I grasp the handle of the knife embedded in his back and place a boot on his side. The knife slides out from between his ribs. I keep my foot in place as I use all my force to do it again.