Spanish Moss I

“A Believer’s Tragedy on East Ave. ”

I sat there with the bustling city streets. The afternoon sun was flickering through the spanish moss while it danced with the wind. The concrete bench outside was rough on the palms of my hands. A few dozen engraved fleur-de-lises wrap around the edge. They were granulated and weathered over the years by the passing afternoon storms and annual hurricanes. It was only a few moments before my palms began to sweat. It’s hard to say if that was the humidity, intuition, or the stress—at this point it hardly matters. I was glued to that seat. Every time I tired to leave, my legs failed me. I couldn’t tell you why. The air was warm that day. It wasn’t unpleasant, but a gentle sort of warmth.

“You, alright?”

An old man stood in front of me. His hands were clean and well kept. The shoes he wore looked well worn, at least 500 miles worth. The pressed trouser cuffs of a pair of brown slacks draped around their frayed ends. Above them, a blue striped button up shirt hung freely around his waist. His face looked at once old and youthful. I couldn’t make sense of it. Then I looked in his eyes, and I knew him. I was terrified to say it out loud, but I immediately recognized him. My hands relaxed and I released the bench I was trying to break with my grip. I rubbed the sweat from my palms, and the uneasiness faded away. I relaxed my posture.

“I don’t know,” I said.

I looked away from him when I said it. I couldn’t lie to him. The old man looked up the street, took a deep breath, and slowly sat down next to me. I had no reason to be there except for the fact that my intuition compelled me there, and refused to let me leave. In that moment, I assumed that he was the reason. Interlocking his fingers, he relaxed into his legs.

“Mind if I just, sit here for a moment?”

“Not at all,” I say. “Help yourself.”

“You know..” He paused and looked up the street again. The wind blew and the scent of southern wild lavender wafted up the cobblestone streets. “…it will pass.”

I pinched my eyebrows together and looked at him. I genuinely had know idea what he was referring to. I asked him, “What will?”

“There’ll be plenty of time for that,” he said with a smile. “For now though, I’ve got to go.”

He tilted his chin upwards a little, placing his hand on his knee, and looking sort of down his nose. It felt more curious than it did condescending. Bracing himself on his knees, he leaned forward into his old worn out shoes and rose to his feet. Patting me gently on the shoulder he says, “Just remember what I said. Don’t worry, I'll see you around.”

I nodded my head. He returned the same, and turned walking away down the street. I watched him walk until he faded from view. A strong gust of wind rolled up the street from the opposite direction. I turned to face it, and that’s when I saw her. Her scarlet hair blowing in the wind. The doors of a four-star hotel closing behind her. I looked over my shoulder for the old man, but he was nowhere to be found. I sank into the concrete bench. The world became a little grayer and a little colder.

Somehow, I always thought you would have more answers—yet every time we meet, I’m left with more questions than answers.