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April 1

The old people sit on the bench. They had been sitting, on that same bench for thirty-eight minutes. Today is Friday. They sat there yesterday, Thursday… and Wednesday, and Tuesday… and Monday, as well.

I saw them as I passed. And I smiled. They smiled back. Time etched lines across their faces… lines from waiting. Deep recesses of age and maturity… Always, just the two of them, waiting on that same bench. I had seen them each day this week, always at the same time, always sitting side-by-side. Always watching, every time waiting… Maybe… Faint smiles across each face…. Deep in thought...

The couple just sat there, at times unaware of what was going on. They didn’t seem to be paying attention to the group of young teenagers throwing the football… running the length of the field. Stumbling, throwing, blocking, and laughing. The brouhaha doesn’t faze the couple… But they are spectators, of times once passed... and of the impromptu ball game. The Hero and the Angel are sitting, waiting, and watching.

And the ball is now placed at the forty-yard mark. The teenagers huddle at forty-one minutes. The teenagers break. The Hero’s eyes fix, and the young Redhead… he’s carrying the ball… from the forty to the forty-three, to the forty-four. And now, on the forty-seventh yard, two others tackle the Redhead and they all go down… a tumble of arms and legs… gangly and rolling…grunting.

The two tacklers get up. The Redhead lies on the forty-seventh yard at the forty-seventh minute. The Hero and the Angel rise from the bench. The young tacklers prod the Redhead. The youth doesn’t move. The Hero and the Angel are gone, their slow gait off in the distance. And I go home…