sunday

A lonely, yellow balloon hovered on the backdrop of a clear blue, summer sky. My eyes panned down, following the string that kept the balloon from its freedom. At the end of the string was a large, wrinkled  hand that belonged to the keeper of the yellow balloon - an elderly man with snowy hair disheveled by the breeze. He walked slowly along the path, his back hunched over his cane. He stopped as he came to the empty park bench, struggling with the decision that confronted him. After a moment, he surrendered to his weakness and reluctantly sat.  He lifted his downcast face and caught my gaze. Behind thick glasses, the twinkle of the blue eyes of his youth had been glazed over with time and sorrow. The crow’s feet that shot out from the corners of his eyes told that this man had not always been a stranger to a smile.  

Curiosity drove me to claim the opposite side of the park bench. As I sat, I turned my head and stared with no feelings of embarrassment or shame. After a brief glance in my direction, eyebrows set with position of minor annoyance, he turned his eyes back to the ground. I continued in my blatant observation. He wore a simple, gray suit and a tie that matched the balloon that his left hand still clung to. 

The moment before I dared to open my mouth in conversation, a delighted squeal penetrated through the noise of the city park and I looked over to see a young girl. Arms outstretched and blonde curls swept across her face, she ran to the old man as fast as her short legs would take her. The corners of his mouth turned up as she climbed onto his knee and melted into his arms. Without hesitation, she began to babble on excitedly about her adventures, all the while pointing towards the playground in the far off distance. 

And as I sat, I realized that such is life. People who are old are able to see the pure beauty of youth and those who are young fail to realize how wonderful they are.