It was October...

It was October when I first saw him. The cool air stung, and the fallen leaves painted the dry ground with shades of crimson and brown. From my elevated room, I could see everything around me. My room even overlooked the small park parallel to my apartment.

He came plowing through the fallen leaves. His walk was heavy and sluggish, like he’d been carrying a heavy baggage for weeks. His charcoal coat seemed to weigh him down; it reached his knees,  engulfing him and revealing only his head. His visage looked hurt somehow, but I didn’t pay much attention to it then. He stopped right before an exhausted wooden bench facing a small, deserted playground. He bent down slowly, and gently brushed the the bench, releasing it of its colorful burden. With some strain he sat down and...nothing. He did nothing. It seemed like he was watching the leaves fall and imaginary children swing.

I saw him on that bench at the same time, every day, for about a week. He fascinated me. Why would he come out here in the cold just to look at nothing; just an empty, outdated park. I started writing down everything I saw him do. In about an hour my paper was blank, and I was frustrated. I got up out of my chair, marched downstairs, grabbed my scarlet coat, and walked determinately across the street, into the park.
   I marched right up to the bench and sat down next to him feeling slightly too motivated. I sat straight and never faced him directly, hoping to look aloof. He didn’t seem to notice I sat down; his eyes were blank and fixed on the abandoned playground. His ivory hair stood out against his dark coat.

I gripped the bench  seat and leaned forward, looking straight at him.  “What are you doing?” I asked harshly.
   His head quickly snapped in my direction, like I had just broken him out of a trance, or pulled him out of a dream. He looked confused and tired. There were a plethora of wrinkles etched on his face; lines criss-crossed and connected one point to another like a map of New York. His eyes were dark and warm, like a rich maple syrup.
   Confused he asked, “I’m sorry, did I do something wrong?” His voice was low and raspy; it sounded stiff and underused.
   “No, but that’s the problem. You’ve been coming here for a week and doing absolutely nothing! I don’t get it. It’s freezing and there’s nobody in the park and... and you just sit here” I said gesturing around me. “I just want to know why.”
   You might think he would have stared at me like I was crazy or psychotic, but he just looked at me with his kind, tawny eyes, and chuckled, his mouth forming a thin line.
   “You’re a strange one,” he said still laughing. “I don’t do much from where you’re standing, but that doesn’t mean my mind isn’t working, ma’am.”
   “So all you do is sit here and think.” I said underwhelmed and slightly disappointed, even though I’m not sure what I was expecting. “What do you think about?” I asked, feeling a little defeated.
   “Well,” he said with a heavy sigh, “what’s left to think about when you’re my age other than your life.” He turned away from me and to look back at the playground. And he started talking. Talking about everything; how and where he grew up, his single mother who raised three kids on her own, his brother and sister who died years earlier, everywhere he’s been, and places he’ll never get a chance to go. And I listened. I listened to every syllable and every detail he spoke with his scratchy and strong voice. I watched how he sat slumped in his seat,  and how his thin lips moved, forming his unrelatable story.
   Then he started talking about his time in the army. Sometimes he would close his wise,old eyes, like he was trying to remember important, long forgotten details. He would glance in my direction once in awhile to make sure I was following along, and I was. I listened to his friends die, and his enemy’s screams. His voice seemed strained, and he would need to take a long pause from time to time.
   Finally he told me about his wife and his daughter. His wife had died ten years ago so now his was living alone. His daughter was in the army. “She joined right after high school. She always said she wanted to be a hero, like me.” He was shaking, and fiddling with small picture in his hands. “This is her in her uniform,” He said proudly, showing me a picture of a smiling woman. “I carry it with me wherever I go. She’s so beautiful, isn’t she?”
   “When is she coming back?” I asked tentatively.
   “Don’t worry about that, ma’am. I’ll be with her soon enough,” he said smiling a small, hopeful smile.
   We had been sitting out there so long his large ears and bumpy nose turned rosy, but he didn’t seem to mind. The sky was darkening, and I started to realize how cold I was. He saw I was shivering, and immediately looked guiltful. “I’m sorry I kept you out here, you look like you’re freezing.”
   “I don’t mind really. You have a wonderful story. Maybe you could tell me more tomorrow,” I said with chattering teeth.
   “Maybe, but I won’t burden you any longer today.” He stood up slowly his back hunch and proffered his hand. I took hold of his long, leathery fingers, and stood up too. Even with his hunched back he was significantly taller than me.
   “Good night, ma’am.”
   “Good night.”
   And like that we parted ways. I waited for him the next day, but he never came. I sat by my window and watched people pass below me, hoping he was one of them. I sat there every day for a week only to watch a deserted park buried under a sea of leaves.
   One morning, I was about to give up hope of ever seeing him again when I noticed a small red object standing out in contrast to the dark painted bench. I shot up, and I ran down stairs and out the door, not bothering to put on my blood-red coat.
   I ran to the bench and found a red envelope placed perpendicular to the bench seat, stuck  between two wooden boards. I glanced around me to see if he was here, but the streets and park were as deserted as usual. I carefully picked it up and opened it, taking out a bleach white paper.
   It was a small letter with graceful, winding handwriting.

                    You remind me of her. Thank you.

                               -Albert
   That was all that was written.
   There was something else in the envelope. I turned it over and a picture of a woman slid out. It was the picture of his daughter he’d shown me a week ago. I didn’t understand how I reminded him of her; she was a woman in her thirties with thin blond hair, full lips, chocolate-brown eyes, and a tall, strong stature. We looked nothing alike. I didn’t understand why he would leave me her picture; a picture he seemed to treasure.

I flipped the small photo over to find the same handwriting, and the end to Albert’s story.

                             Mary Blair

                       2/23/1972-10/16/2002
                             MY  HERO