The Girl in the Park

She would never bring anything with her. No phone, book or pen & pad in her hands. Not even an umbrella in the rain or extra gloves in the winter. She would simply walk to the bench, every day, and sit herself down at precisely 4:45 pm. And then she would wait. Simple as that. Wait. Just gaze out into the distance with her back straight and hands calmly folded on her knees. She never even looked away from the horizon, as if had she turned away for a second she would miss whatever she was looking for.

1 hour later, at precisely 5:45 pm, she would rise from the bench and go back the way she came. Straight past the mothers calling to their children to put away their frisbees. Straight past the owners pocketing their phones and tugging their dogs out the park entrance. She’d take a right out the park, take another right, go up the tiny hill with the mansions and walk back up 6th street.

Every day she repeated this meticulous routine to the T. Not one thing changed on any given day. She came 7 days a week, 365 days a year. No matter how hard the rain fell, how deep the snow went, how hot the sun beat down, how full or empty the park was. Every single day she came and she waited for exactly one hour before returning home; just to come back again 24 hours later.

But the thing that puzzled me most was the face she wore each day as she sat down on the bench. A mask of neutral. Even the most skilled readers of expression and body language would not be able to determine a thing about this magenta-clad girl. Well, up until April 23rd that is. That day her eyes were red when she sat down. That day she hunched her shoulders and peeked over them once in awhile to check that no one was around. That day she came at 4:45 pm and left long after the sun had dipped below the horizon. That was the day she spent the hours in the park tears bursting from her eyes like water from a dam.






I never returned to the park after that.