The Man and The Boy

I sit on my bench on the perimeter of the park, having finished a walk around with the terrier, letting her show off for her adoring fans.

Across from me two men settle into their seats, both bundled up for weather that has been predicted, not for what is now. One wears a practical down coat, and a great Elmer Fudd hat, his earflaps up and hooked over his head. It goes with his wonderful round face, and brown eyes under wiry eyebrows, a bald head is protected under that hat. Smile wrinkles spread from his small eyes as he snaps his fingers at the dog, who wanders over to accept her given due.

His companion glances down, and away. He is far more debonair, in a long, gray wool coat with a fur collar. Whatever animal gave it’s life for that coat can rest easy knowing it’s beauty is still appreciated all these years later. His trousers, for these are far too rich to be simple pants, have a knife edge crease to them, the bottom ending in a smart cuff. The only anomaly to his smart look is his shoes, which are rubber boots…cheap and tawdry in comparison to the other clothes. He has thick white hair, parted on the right that sweeps in a wing over his forehead. I can see the deep blue of his eyes from my place across the pathway. No smile settles there, not even at the terrier’s antics with his friend.

His face all pulls downward, in angles that don’t speak of anger or sadness or dismay….I realised if regret had a face, it would be his.

I go back to looking around, eavesdropping on the playground mating rituals, settling the dog back on the bench, leaning back to feel the sun on my face.

Cheers break out across the park, shouts in children’s voices. I look over and there is an impromptu tag race going on with the neighborhood kids. Two teams set up, running around the fenced in grass area. Mothers are standing about, watching both the race and the toddlers, arms folded, swaying with that movement you unconsciously do once you’ve had a child and you find yourself standing still.

They run around, arms pumping, heads back to catch the air. Younger sisters act as cheerleaders, shouting encouragement and doing tumbles. The men and I look over to watch these pretend Olympians. A boy in blue takes off, clearly in the lead….and the other team tags off to a slim boy in an orange shirt and bluejeans. He isn’t special, brown hair, perhaps ten or so….he takes the tag and moves into the race.

That’s all it took. The tag. One minute he was standing there, arm behind him, and the next, he was moving…strong, steady, smooth. No jerky pumping of the arms of his friends, no ungainly leg movements. No obvious breathing to get into place.

He just….ran.

Like Secretariat, he ran for the pleasure, for the feel of what his body could do. It was second nature to him. I saw his face as he rounded the far curve, as he’d passed his opponent. He wore a slight smile, not one of smugness…it was one of pure joy of the race. He flowed when he ran. I smiled with him, and leaned forward when he came into the line, to pass on the tag. He reached out, passed on his power, and glided to a halt, joining the others at the fence to lean and chat.

He wasn’t even winded.

With this, the man in gray stood up and moved to walk away. His friend stood too, looking at me, then in the direction of the boy, smiling and shaking his head. I smiled back. His friend, too, looked back, and moved on.

If regret wore a face, it would be his.