#249 - A Walk in the Park

It's bleary out today, with a major storm crawling towards us from the south. I thought it fitting to repost this blast from the past. It dates back to January 11, 2011 - another Sunday Scribbles entry from my old blog.

 

 

Old Mrs. Milton trundled down the icy street, shopping bag swinging in tempo with her labored gait and punctuated breaths. She wore about her thin shoulders a shawl of the whitest snow, and a matching coating had settled upon the thin flowered scarf that she always wound around her hair when going about the town.

Paper-thin skin grew angry red against the frosty wind. It was necessary to go out. She was too hardy in soul and too poor in pantry to pay it any mind. She gazed momentarily at her exposed skin and pondered its diaphanous nature. Had those veins always been there, so very elevated? Was that a tendon creaking as she clenched and unclenched her hand? She marveled at mortality’s fragile quality. Ah, but this is the hallmark of being ancient, she laughed to herself and then turned into the park.

She had taken the same familiar park short-cut for nearly eight decades; ninety-three years had passed since Mrs. Milton’s birth. “Seven makes one hundred,” she chuffed, and momentarily wondered if they would put her picture in the paper.

The park held many wonderful memories, of course. The colorful playground contained primary colored slides, climbing devices and swings but the area had once been a small ice rink where children and aspiring lovers spent lazy winter afternoons. Her mind’s eye saw two bundled up boys laughing as they played chase across nature’s cold glass.

A modern art sculpture festooned a pavilion area that was home to a gaily decorated petting zoo in the early 1900s. Her sister was so afraid of the goats, and always hid behind their mother’s skirts whenever they approached.

Vendors of all sorts once lined the path and you could buy roasted chestnuts in the winter. How she loved those chestnuts! Her mouth watered at the thought of summer ice flavored with cherry, peppermint strings that made the tongue flop and flip, and always the cotton candy and popcorn smells.

A tall oak loomed into view and she paused before it, as was her custom. This place was the heart of the park itself and the very spot where Mr. Milton dropped to a knee and asked for her hand. The War was then, and she had almost said “no”, but his eyes – those beautiful eyes! – caused her heart to defeat her common sense. Oh but that was a good thing indeed, and Mrs. Milton had never been happier than when her husband was alive.

But he had passed away, so many long years ago, long before his prime and long before she was ready to say goodbye. Isn’t that how it always is? She had outlived him and had outlived their two sons and, most troubling of all, had outlived her only grandchild. She was rather alone, both in companionship and in the park itself.

No matter, she thought. Happiness is a state of mind. She considered herself blessed to not only be alive but to have the strength to do her own shopping. Granted, it was a mere two blocks and a walk in the park but she was independent still. Slow-moving, very much so, but independent.

She shook her shopping bag and took up the journey again. She could just see the gate at the far end of the park. Her kettle was waiting.