He Sits

    He sits, alone, every day, at the same park bench. I don’t know why. I don’t think anyone other than himself knows why. But there he is. He sits there for hours, lost in his own thought, unresponsive to the world around him. We have seen people sit beside him, attempt to talk to him, try to move him, but little works.

    Once, we saw  a man pour a soda over his head, presumably just to provoke a reaction. There was none. He just sat there, staring ahead, as if nothing happened. A few of us went over to offer to wipe him up, but he was so far away that I doubt he knew we were there.

    I think the saddest part of it is the expression on his face:
      The deep lines that have grown deeper and worn with age.
      The spots on his face that show years in the sun.
      The cracks at the corners of his mouth.
      The subtle groves that wrinkle his lips and the edges of his nose.
      The eyes that seem to focus on some forgotten distance.
      The solitary tear that is permanently set upon his right tear duct, and its companion creeping down the ravine on the left side of his nose.

    And yet he sits there, day after day. He arrives some time before five, when we gather to take coffee or tea before heading off to work, and he is there, probably unmoved, when we head home in the evening. He has been there in all sorts of weather, regardless of the time of year.

    His suits are worn, and his shoes, though fully put together, show the wear of one who has tracked many miles to reach his final destination. His jacket may be wrinkled, and his pants a little threadbare at the knees, but they were expensive and finely tailored at one point.

    When we go by, late at night, he is gone. He probably returns to his flat, or a shelter, or even to some estate outside the city for a rest before resuming his post. We don’t know, and are afraid to ask.
   
    My friends and I have our theories. He may be a veteran, who has been waiting for the love promised him before some long past war, or a widower, who lost his will and desire when he lost his better half. But they are just theories, and we will never know for sure.

      Has he lost? Certainly. Is he lost? Maybe, but we will never know.

    We only know this. There is something romantic about him. I think it is his dedication. The longing in his posture. The despondency of his vigil that calls to mind the guard at a tomb whose occupants story will never be fully told.

    We can only pray that, someday, he finds what he is looking for.