I watch in wonder as he makes his way over to the park bench. His good looks are masked by his facial hair and his need for a bath, but the attractive looks are there none-the-less. On his back he carries a bag stuffed full of unknown items, probably everything he owns is in that one bag. He appears to be 25 years-old at the max, but he may be younger. It's hard to tell with all the grime that covers him from head to toe. Taking one look at this man you can tell that he is in fact homeless.
I sit there studying him behind the lenses of my mirrored sunglasses. He is talking to himself as he wanders around the park, never straying far from the bench he has claimed. Suddenly a well dressed man in his 50's greets him. His eyes light up with joy when he sees the man and he embraces him in a bear hug. Once the hugging session is over they make their way back to the bench. They sit there for some time talking. After about 20 minutes his eyes start to close and within minutes he is fast asleep. The well dressed man took one last look at him, then leaves.
Who was that well dressed man? Was he his father? Was he his old friend? Was he his grandfather? Or was he just a stranger with the heart to talk to someone who no one else would look at? All those questions swirled around my head.
That man lying sound asleep on that park bench has a story to tell. His life story. How he became homeless, what tragedies happened in his life, what joy happened. He has a story. His story is all in his memories, he can never completely share his story with anyone, he would never be able to describe all his emotions, sensations, thoughts . . . the story is his, it's his and his alone.
Everyone has a story. That lady who rear-ended you, that police officer eating a doughnut, that little old lady in the seniors' home, the man in that car who just passed you . . . everyone. Their stories include tragedy, love, joy, depression, every single emotion is contained in their stories. From the day they're born their stories begin.
YOU have a story.
Suddenly the man on the bench stirs and my attention turns back to him. He rubs his eyes and looks around. Noticing that the well dressed man is gone a single tear rolls down his cheek. He quickly wipes it away. Then he looks at me, I swear he can see right through the mirrored lenses on my sunglasses, because he looks me right in the eye . . . and smiles. I nod at him then look away embarrassed that I was caught staring. The man laughs quietly to himself then gathers up his bag and disappears in the crowd of people.
He has a story. His story is his, and his alone.
-ocean10kv
