Epiphany

Epiphany

A cold wind blew from the North across the park, despite himself Ira stiffened in his chair.
The park bench was hard, and cold, and offered no sense of comfort. Still, he did not want to be home right now, and with the library closed and no bookstore in town the park would have to do.

The wind kicked up pieces of trash and dried leaves and it seemed for a moment the flotsam might consume him.
He remained stoic tableaux.

"She really hadn't done anything," he spoke inward. But somehow he still felt betrayed.
The little white lies, and she told them so well, it infuriated him. And he knew it hurt her to see him like this, part of him thought that was good.

The day was ending. The dark amplified by the overcast sky of autumn. Amber, red streaked across a deep blue twilight sky as the wind quietly whipped through the naked trees.
He remained motionless.

She had not spoken to him in over a year, so why now? She had vehemently denied it; denied it so much that he could smell the lie. But why? It made him think.

The cold bit deep into his limbs and sparking his memory. Ironically reminded him of when they met. She had been open back then. She had confided in him that made him feel special.

She would find every excuse to visit him in his workshop. And he had always welcomed her company. And she spoke of him. Not a lot, but it touched something sensitive deep inside each time she spoke his name. Just friends? He didn't know.. He wondered.

With effort he lifted himself from the bench. Bones and muscles stiff and tired, he stretched them luxuriously. The writing pad on his lap hit the wet pavement with a satisfying thwap. A gift from his sister on his 30th birthday and one of his most cherished possessions, along with the murky memories of past times. He smiled.

The banks of the river were a rich, wet black. The Red was preparing for winter.
As darkness crept ever closer the lights that illuminated the path turned on.
It's on the northern side of the park, that the darkness begins to take on its customary face, that the lampposts at one in ten meters become one in twenty, then fifty, then infrequent enough for you to be in darkness, and light to be something over there, away from you, something to leave and reach again when you hurry along the paths.
The darkness began to well up inside him now. Deep, empty void-seemingly without end, with no pool of safe light to run to. His resolve started to buckle. A thin tear streaked across his cheek.

He jumped! Adrenaline, steel and the hint of lavender, faster than conscious thought, flooded past, possessing a small Doppler effect. And it spoke.
"Hi", baring an essence of laughter.
Youth in motion whizzed past him on a dilapidated bike
Slowing she turned. Her profile bore a laughing smile, conservative features, long curly hair the colour of dead grass. He paused, pensive scanning his memory drawing a blank. Nobody he knew, just a girl.
He replied.
"Hello".
She stopped.
"Are you all right?" She asked. Her voice true - his had betrayed him.
He paused as if he needed to consider himself before answering,
"I'm fine thank you."
"Beautiful night isn't it."
He could feel the crispness of the wind on his face.
"Yes, yes it is."
"Are you sure you're OK?"
"I'm fine thank you. Have a nice evening." She smiled and headed back down the path. He watched her vanish into the darkness.

He paused for moment thinking, "A beautiful, young girl."

For several moments he concentrated exclusively on his breathing, slowing and regulating it. Then, tentatively, he probed at his emotions.
"A beautiful girl, happy, with happiness to share."
The dams burst. And tears, so long overdue finally came.

A long moment had passed. It was completely dark now.
The sound and smells of autumn filled the air. It seemed somehow clearer now. Fresh cut wood burned on an open fire, the rustle of dried leaves, and the wind, not quite so cold now, rushed through the bare branches.

Ira spread his arms wide and looked up at the sky as if to embrace the wind, perhaps to embrace the world, his circumstance that which he called life.
"All things end," he spoke aloud. "All things become anew," he thought.
His heart lifted, only slightly, but enough, allowing himself a wry smile he headed for home. He would talk, he would argue, he might even laugh or cry.
But above all else he knew.


Stephen McDonald October 3, 2001
© Copyright 2001 Stephen Edward McDonald