Point Of View (Day 9)

Writing Challenge Day 9 : A man and a woman walk through the park together, holding hands. They pass an old woman sitting on a bench. The old woman is knitting a small, red sweater. The man begins to cry. Write this scene.

 

View points

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The Woman

 

This park is beautiful. He seems to be really attached to this place… it’s amazing and I totally understand why. I wish I could live here. Why is he extremely quiet? That’s weird, he has been nagging about this place since we reached the airport.

“I wish I could live here,”

silence

He probably didn’t hear me or something, that’s fine.

“This place is really vibrant, and full of energy…its a nice place for walks”

Silence

 

“A friend of mine had a tree just like this one, at her front hard. The color of the leaves complimented the exterior of the house. Honestly, it looked stunning.”

Silence

“Look, that old lady is knitting in summer; she must be making the red sweater for her grandchild for the winter, how lovely, isn’t it adorable?”

Ok now I’m definitely sure he’s not listening. How can you not respond to that?

“That’s a really nice sweater.” He said

“Uhmm, it is. You know what? I want to learn how to knit! The stuff you can make are amazing…”

Silence

“it’s a form of art…”

I suddenly see him turn pale

“What’s wrong??”

He pauses for a moment and paces towards the bench.

Are those tears? Why is he crying?

 

 

The Man

This park is a special place for me, it holds all my memories, my tragic falls. My thoughts wonder almost forgetting about her presence beside. I was seven years old again. She seems to be talking but it doesn’t sound like words, I was too emerged in being my seven year old self again. She speaks of something about knitting, that’s all I could gather. I am mastering the skill of picking out the useful and ignoring the gossip and irrelevant commentary on things like how colors compliment my skin tone. I guess it’s a man skill.

“…Knitting in summer,” she said “lady ….red sweater…”

 

“That’s a really nice sweater.”

Her voice continues to play in the background as I imagine myself sitting on the bench scaring away the pigeons.

For a second my body goes still, I rub my eyes in disbelief. It couldn’t be its impossible. Tears begin to cloud my sight. I can feel my face go pale. It was her, it is hard to mistaken her with her uniquely colored eyes which emitted a feeling of warmth and calmness, and the scar which ran across the side of her face. There wasn’t a doubt; it was her. I thought she died a long time ago. She suffered a life threatening illness. These were genuine tears of joy.

 

“Aunty Sarah?!”

“Is it really you?” “My boy?”

Astonished she dropped her needles allowing them to dance on the pavement.

She was my nanny, my second mother. She was always there to listen to my wild adventures and stories, she let me eat from my mom’s secret chocolate stash and fight imaginary villains. She was a friend. She was until; she had to leave due to her illness. I was shattered.

Twenty years later, here she is knitting sweaters on the park bench, a lot older but with the same spirit. Who would have known?

The joy is overwhelming.

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