The old man stood at the edge of the park, the curb meeting the grass behind him, and ran a hand through his graying hair. The place was destroyed. Trees lay toppled onto their sides, dirtied roots bared. Clumps of grass protruded from the earth, pivoted unnaturally towards the sky. Leaves and sawdust and acorns and a hundred other shattered things were strewn about the ground, coated benches and tables, clung to the walls of a tilted outhouse at the corner of the park.
The old man sighed, and the cool wind brushed against his cheek like a sorrowful kiss. With its passage came the scuffling shamble of dead leaves against asphalt. A branch, dislodged by the breeze, fell from its place atop one of the last old trees still standing and pinged against the bent stop sign at the corner of the road.
The hurricane had come and gone with a roar and a flash and a fury that the old man could not conjure again in his memory beyond the shadow of the experience.
Shoes struck out through the silent street, crunched across the fallen detritus, and came to stand beside the old man. He turned slightly to regard the new arrival.
“I can’t believe it,” the boy said.
“Did you watch it happen?” the old man asked.
“No. We left town the day before it hit. Just got back a few hours ago, and we’ve spent the whole time tossing branches out of our yard.”
They fell into silence and gazed out at the ruined park.
“Did you watch it?” the boy asked.
“Yes. From that house, right over there.” The old man leveled a finger.
The boy turned and followed his direction. “There’s nothing there, mister.” A pause. “Oh.”
The old man nodded and said nothing.
“I’m so sorry, mister.”
“I can’t believe it either, y’know. Getting to watch it happen didn’t really help.”
An old, crooked tree pierced from the center of the park. Its limbs were thin and white and no leaves clung to its branches. The other trees around it had crumbled to the ground, but the old tree still stood tall, spiteful limbs pointed towards the sky as if daring the storm to return for another round. You will never claim me, it seemed to cry. My roots are firm and my branches sharp and my bark will never break.
The boy pointed a finger at the tree and snorted. “My brother and I climbed up that tree when we were really little. I fell off it and broke my arm.”
“Yet it’s still standing.”
“It is.”
“How does that make you feel?”
“Kind of angry. But I guess there was really no other way for this to end.”
“There wasn’t.”
“I think I’ll remember falling off that tree for a long time.”
“You will.”
“Is that a good thing?”
The old man did not reply.
The two of them stared off into the park for a time, neither speaking. The wind swept against them with the calm that follows a lover’s rage, and the old man breathed deeply of the clean air while the boy tried not to breathe at all. The boy scowled at the crooked old tree until sweat began to drip down his blushing face. He raised a hand and swiped it away with his palm and finally spoke again.
“Do you need any help, mister?”
“With what?”
“With your house.”
The old man considered for a time. “No. No, I think I’m alright. Thank you.”
The boy nodded. “Well, I should probably head out. Still got a lot of cleaning to do.”
The old man agreed.
The boy turned and trudged back through the park, fallen leaves crunching beneath his shoes. He stooped and picked up a dead branch, cold and wet and hollow, and tossed it away into the torn underbrush. As he passed the bent stop sign, he struck it with the palm of his hand like some old ritual, but the sound it produced was sad and lonely, and the boy’s shoulders lowered as he continued on. He stopped at the street, looked both ways, and crossed. The roar of a car in the distance and nothing more.
The boy approached the corner and turned back to look at the old man. Their gazes met, and the boy raised a hand and waved farewell. The old man did the same. The boy’s hand dropped to his side, and he glanced about as if searching for some excuse to stay and embarrassed that he could find none. At last, he turned back to his path and curled around the corner, vanishing from sight and leaving the old man alone once more.
Grant Gaugush currently attends school in Tampa, Florida. He enjoys public speaking, traveling, and the beach. He has previously been published in Scholastic and Writers of the Future.
Euphony Journal 