You sit alone at the park, watching the kids play and the dogs run around, ducks squabbling over the crumbs of bread that some old man was kind enough to throw. You look lonely, and yet, in a weird way, content. I've often wondered what you were doing; you could be meditating, or just watching. I don't understand how you have the patience to just sit and stare, but then, I have trouble sitting still for any length of time. I respect you for that, although I don't understand.
The first day you came, at least, the first day I noticed, you were crying. I wanted so badly to sit next to you and hug you, but that would be odd from a stranger like me. What were you crying about that day? Would you have let me hug you?
I like to think that you can sense me watching, like I'm your guardian angel. I guess I'm not much of a guardian; I only watch and wait. Sometimes, after you have left, I go to the bench and sit next to where you were and imagine that we are together, that you know my name and would let me hug you if I wanted. I try to meditate, like you seem to, but I don't have the patience. Even watching the kids on the playground, their action and drama, I get antsy, itching to go back home.
Home is my sanctuary, my observatory, my prison. It is comfortable and safe, but it is a reminder of what is wrong with me. A reminder that I will never talk to you, never let you know me. So instead I wait for something I don't expect to happen and watch the world as it passes by.
There was one day you brought bread to feed the ducks. I watched you tear it up and throw it, the ducks fighting over every little piece. The bigger ducks fought the hardest and they got the most bread. They huddled around you, begging for more, forming a wall between you and the ducklings, who had to have been hungry by then. You saw them and tried to feed the smaller ones, but the stronger ducks would snatch it out of your hand until you used your last piece. I saw how sad you were that you couldn't feed the little ducklings. You left after that. You didn't see me come out with my own bread, shooing away the big ones and making sure each of the ducklings each had a full slice to themselves.
I've often considered leaving you a letter. Tucking an envelope between the wood planks of your bench, leaving you to read my thoughts, my dreams, my love. But I don't dare. What if someone else saw it first? You are not the only one who sits on that bench, although you sit there the most out of anyone, to be sure. How would you react to a letter? I can't be sure. Do you want a companion, someone to shoo away the bigger ducks so you can make sure the weaker ones get fed? Or would that infringe upon your solitude? Are you lonely, or are you just individual? On different days, I think different things.
Today is different. You are late. I fear that you will not come, that your tradition will be broken, that I will be alone once more. Then I see you. You look happier than I have ever seen you. Not that you look sad most days, but there is a sense of melancholy about you, reminiscent of the first day. What happened to make you so sad? What has happened to change that? Your step is lighter, and you smile at the children that run past. I pretend that you smile at me instead of a seven year old, even though you can't see me, even though you don't know I exist.
You don't stay as long today, and I miss you.
I try to draw you. I am not a very good artist, and I have never seen you from closer than my bedroom window across the street from the park, but I am pleased with the result. You are feeding the ducks, the smaller ones, and you are smiling, even though I haven't seen you do that before today. I fold it up and decide that, if we ever do meet, I will show it to you. I hope you will like it.
You didn't come today. I waited and waited, but you didn't come. And it was a nice day, too. I've seen you stomp on dry leaves. You must enjoy the crackle of autumn, the pleasant chill. You've never missed a day like this before.
When I see you walking down the street, I can hardly believe it. It has been nearly a month since your happy day, and I haven't seen you in all that time. I've barely moved from my window, searching and hoping, longing for you to come. You sit on your bench, but today, it looks less like meditating and more like waiting. You don't look as relaxed, as peaceful as you used to, but you are happy. You don't have any of that melancholy demeanor left. I can't decide if I miss it or if I am glad it is gone.
A person in a comfortable coat walks up to your bench and I can see that you smile wider. You hold their hand as I've often dreamed you would hold mine, and walk to the pond. The stranger has a loaf of bread and you take turns breaking off pieces and throwing them to the ducks. Like before, the larger ducks monopolize, stealing bread from the smaller ones. But today, the stranger shoos them away so you can feed the small ones. I notice that you give each duckling a full slice. The stranger comes back and when you both run out of bread, you kiss each other. The evening sun glints over the water and ducks peck at your feet for any spare crumbs. You kiss through the screams of children playing, through the sun dipping below the horizon, through tears you are not aware of, from a person you will never know.
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