Statue in the Park

I stand still.

Not moving.

Never moving.

No heart.

Nothing inside.

Just the cold hard bronze outside. Tunnel vision gives me a view of just one spot, the one spot in the park that’s important to me. The one spot in the world that’s important to me. Every single day I stare at that one spot, unblinking. A brick building towers the park, ivy creeping up its side, holding it in a deathgrip, and extending to every edge of my view. Behind it, a gloomy grey sky sobs into the soft wind, creating puddles along the only road I’ve ever known. And in front of the road is the grass. I’ve never seen any other grass, but I’d bet this is the greenest grass in the world. Its vibrant color glowing against the misery of everything else. That grass is green for one reason, and one only, because the old man with the top hat cares.

Every day he comes, a rich black top hat resting upon his head like it was invented for him and him only. He twirls a wooden cane on his finger, walking with a skip in his step, and whistling a jolly little tune. He wears only a simple suit and red tie. His face is long, yet cheery, with rosey cheeks and a warm smile that seems to brighten the day. He’s tall, but I tower over him. I wait for him every morning, listening intently for his whimsical whistle. It’s clear as water and as melodic as the song of the birds.

In the fall he arrives early in the morning, just as the sun begins to break through the surface of the earth. He rakes the leaves, dancing while he works. He brings them into big piles and lets the kids jump in and throw them up in the air. They laugh and he laughs too, like they were his own children. Sometimes he arrives with a woman latched onto his arm. Unlike the man, this woman is short and plump, with scarves and expensive fur draped all over her. Yet she has the same jolly grin stained upon her circular face as her husband. She giggles as he tosses the leaves over her head and they catch in her pearly white hair. They have something, something special, like a warm glow that reflects only between them. I don’t see that between anyone else these days.

In the winter he comes carrying a shovel. The cold turns his cheeks from rosey to bright red as he works from morning to afternoon. He wears heavy coats and black gloves, but the hat stays upon his head, and sometimes I wonder if he ever takes it off. I watch the little kids build snowmen. They leap and roll and play like the cold doesn’t even affect them. I look at the children and I look at the adults, and wonder where the curiosity ever went of the adults. Imagination? That little spark in their eyes that twinkles in compliments with their smile? The old man has it. He never lost it. I’d seen him every day since he was just a young man, learning about the world. These days he cares for the children and cheers them up whenever the world has sucked the hope out of them. Always smiling. Always twinkling. No matter how hard the wind blows, the man’s passion blows harder.

In the spring he comes with water and seeds and turns the ground to a fiesta of colors. He tends to the tiny seeds every day until they grow into sprouts, and eventually into breathtaking flowers. The garden is alive with colors galore. Petunias and daisies and roses. All dancing in the wind. I am surrounded by optimism of color and it makes me feel content, as if I have grown a heart into my own hollow body.

One spring evening he came with the girl. The girl was dressed in the most dynamic dress I’d ever seen. She fell right in with the vibrancy of the spring time park. She was a young lady, older than the kids that built snowmen. She was stunning, with flowing auburn hair that fell perfectly over her shoulders. She was broad and tall with a commanding presence, but her face showed a strong sense of cheer and humility. She tended the flowers with the old man, sharing his smile, yet more gentle, with thin deep red lips. I’d seen her with him before. She was younger, more innocent. He brought her here when she was small and she played with the other kids in the leaves and the snow. She’d left for a long time, I remember. But now she was back, and her and her father could care for me and the park for many more years. The girl often glanced at me with pity. I felt something strong for her, something I didn’t know I could feel, but it pulled me towards her and I pondered whether this was what the old man and the woman felt. Every day I wished more and more that I could touch her flawless skin against my copper. Feel her silken hair. Hold her graceful hand in my own. But I couldn’t.

In the summer, they come in the afternoon, laboring little. Occasionally, all three of them will sit side by side on blankets, staring up at the clouds. The days grow so hot I feel as if I’m melting away. Once in a full moon, the young girl polishes me, with a soft cloth and cool liquid. She takes her time, moving the cloth in circles along my chestnut shell. When she takes a step back and grins with pride, I long to see myself. The sun’s rays reflect off my skin and into my eyes, illuminating the girl’s delighted face. I remembered years ago, on a hot summer day just like this, when the curtain had been pulled from my eyes. My first look at the world. People crowded me. Bright flashes blinded me. The world was somber. The grass was brown, and the birds did not sing. The old man was there by himself standing far away from the chaos and looking at me, but he wasn’t an old man. He had that curious spark to him, and a look that embodied an urge to bring color to this world trapped in shadows, and that he did.

The man grew older with his family. The trees grew taller. The ivy crept further along the building. He no longer spun his cane, but leaned on it. His whistling tune slowed down to a solemn and quiet hum. He still smiled, yet it seemed to grow harder for him to raise his cheeks. He coughed more and more often. His work at the park became less, and most days he would just come and sit on a park bench, reading the newspaper. Every so often his wife or daughter would join him, but he seemed to enjoy being alone with the grass and the flowers and the trees that he’d tended to for so long. The tattered hat stayed upon his head.

Today the man sits alone. It’s fall again. He watches a few children race across the grass that has begun to wilt and brown. He wears his suit and tie, holding a newspaper across his lap. A gust of wind smacks me in the face and carries the top hat right off of the old man’s head.

He doesn’t notice.

He doesn’t even look up from the newspaper, turning the page like he’s moving through molasses. He coughs a few times and then gets up to leave.

The hat lays on the ground. Lonely. A horrible feeling churns inside me, even though I know I’m hollow. A fire licking at my thoughts. The hat just sits. The wind stops. The birds don’t sing. The sky is full of clouds. It seems the whole world has come hurdling to a freeze, trapping me in this moment, as the old man limps out of my sight.

The old man doesn’t come the next day. Nor the next. Nor the next. The skies were cloudy and dark and every morning I still listened ever so intently for his whistle, but my hopes are let down every time. It’s like a hammer being brought down on me over and over. I want to cry, but I know very well that that is impossible.

I stand alone for days. The deep sorrow paining me more every sunrise. Snow begins to fall and land on my head and shoulders, and no one comes to sweep it off.

It’s very early in the morning, when I hear the soft crunch of snow beneath feet, growing louder. A tiny stream of light is just appearing over the horizon. Then I hear the sounds of sobs and two dim figures come into view. I recognize them as the young girl and her mother. I feel like dancing with joy. I am lifted on hope through the clouds, until I see their sorrow. The old woman leans into her daughter, crying. As light begins to engulf their silhouettes, I realize the young lady is no longer wearing the vibrant colors as she had every other day I’d seen her. Now she wears a grey dress so dark it could be mistaken for black. Her mother wears the same shade. Their faces no longer hold the look of joy and glee, but a very deep sense of grief. The mother’s eyes are red and puffy. The girl’s red lips turned down instead of up. Both of them look as if they hadn’t slept for days. The girl has icy blue eyes like her father. They sparkle even in the dawn of morning. She looks up at me for an instant and holds my gaze. I can see the curiosity, imagination, hope, and… love. All packed into this one gaze.

She forces a smile as a single tear rolls gently down her cheek and lands silently in the snow below. Her eyes fall away from mine to the hat on the ground. Not a single rush of wind had blown since it had fallen. It stayed there through the days. Now, the young girl picked it up, running her hand along the brim. More tears fell, but now she had a real smile. It was one of passion. She holds the hat close to her heart for a few seconds as her mother watched calmly. Then she walks toward me slowly, looking down at her toes. She comes so close I feel her breath. She lifts the hat onto my head and wipes away the crystal tears with her sleeve. She looks at me for a while, as if a weight had been removed from her shoulders. Her big indulgent eyes sparkle with tears, but no more dare to break the surface. Even while she cries, she is beautiful. The sun is visible now, immersing the scene in glistening light. It makes the girl seem on fire, as her figure is immersed in the luminescence.

She turns to leave with her mother at her side, but I am no longer saddened. I know the girl will return with her blazing smile and kind heart.

And she did.

The next day she arrives before the sun comes up with a shovel. She once again wears colorful clothes. Her eyes glow as she works all day, shoveling and singing. A few times she gleams at me, for the hat still sits on my head.

She comes everyday now. She cares for the park. She loves the park.

And I stand still…

Watching

Hoping

Dreaming

Loving