A Day in the Park
(an old man, a tortoiseshell comb, a park)
Fall leaves crunched crisp and clean beneath his shoes as he made his way slowly down the path. Brilliant leaves of crimson red and golden orange crumpled into dust as easily as the more common ones of brown and yellow, as the old man took his slow, methodical steps. He placed each foot carefully, lest an unexpected root or branch catch him off guard, tumbling him carelessly to the ground in an undignified heap.If there was one thing he was, it was dignified. Despite the inevitable shrinking caused by years, he carried himself proudly, his silver gray hair a badge of honor. He was meticulous in his dress, clean and well groomed, a charcoal gray overcoat protecting him from the chill of the approaching winter. Slowly, carefully, he made his way to the bench that was his goal. Settling himself down, his cane within easy reach, he sighed and resigned himself to another day of watching, waiting...and remembering. Force of habit caused him to place his left hand into his pocket, closing it around the object he had placed there every day since early June. His fingers played almost unconsciously across the object, feeling the one curved, smooth edge, running his fingernails down across the tines before scraping his fingertips across the softly pointed tips. His fingers touched the beautiful tortoiseshell comb in his pocket, but his mind's eye saw only the other one, the match, the mate of the pair he had given her the day they were married. First, he saw the two of them together, one on either side of her head, gleaming with a bronze glow against her golden blond hair, slightly blurred by the thin wedding veil. He saw them in sharp relief as he drew the veil back over her head with strong, sure hands. Then his eyes were drawn away from the combs to her eyes, bright blue and shining with joy, yet piercing him with an intensity that was as much a part of her as his confidence was a part of him. His mind wandered briefly, touching on the various times she had worn the combs. She saved them for those very special times: an occasional party, birthdays, anniversaries. It was only in the last year she had taken to wearing them daily, as if a sense of the shortness of life prompted her to make every day special. He saw them, still gleaming as she settled them into place, the bronze seemingly even darker against the snow white of her hair. With a last glance in the mirror, with a final pat to her hair, she turned to him and placed her hand in his. He saw them as he snuck glances at her as they walked the same path, through the same park that he had walked each day since. They walked in comfortable silence, no need for chatter after 53 years together. It was a beautiful day in June, with leaves unfurled in the trees, and bright flowers splashing color here and there. He saw the combs, dully reflecting the sun, as she sat on this same park bench, graceful despite her years, and he smiled to himself as he remembered how she looked over at him, eyes still so intense they sent a shock through him each time she turned them on him. And then his mind refused to remember any more, except the sight of the one comb, the mate to the one in his pocket, lying on the ground, broken and crushed by the feet of the punk kid who ran from them, the sound of a gunshot echoing in his mind. He remembered how carefully he kept his eyes on the broken pieces of the comb. Far better to keep them there, than to see the blood that seeped into the ground, or the sight of her eyes, open and staring, and completely empty. He pressed his fingertips into the tines of the comb in his pocket, until the pain in his fingers distracted him from the pain he carried in his heart ever since that day. Only when the pain from the comb's tines became almost unbearable, only when that pain drown out all others, did he lighten the pressure. He slipped his right hand into his other pocket and closed it around the other object he placed there each day. The handle of the handgun fit his hand perfectly. He'd chosen it carefully, the day after she was buried. He confidently filled out the paperwork for the permit, knowing there was nothing in his background to prevent him from purchasing it. Every day, he meticulously cleaned it, loaded it, and placed it in his pocket. Every day, he walked the path he had walked with her. Every day, he watched. Every day, he waited for the time he knew would come. He waited for the day he would see him again, the punk who tried to steal a tortoiseshell comb from the head of an old woman, and killed her as she struggled to protect so precious a gift. The sun passed slowly overhead, shining down on the dignified old man who sat on a park bench, a tortoiseshell comb in one hand, and a gun in the other. When the shadows lengthened with the waning sun, he took his hands from his pockets, picked up his cane, and carefully, methodically, made his way back home.
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