Spring's Stretching Shadows
A Spring day in the park, families picnic, friends grill, shadows stretch, pigeons peck and men it on benches.
Spring in The Netherlands is like a box of chocolates. From hour to hour, you never know what you’re gonna get. Sun, rain, snow, hail, gloom or monsoon. Okay, we don’t get monsoons, but it does rain a lot, plus it rhymed nicely.
Shadows stretch their limbs on my green banks, inhaling those seeking a slice of sun to end their day. Next to the river, a family is laying out a picnic. The father and the blanket battle against a breeze while the mother explains to her kids that the water is too cold for swimming. A few paces to their left, a group of friends, no older than eighteen, are trying to light a cheap metal grill. The first match is blown out as soon as it's struck, the second finds its way to the tray, but nothing lights and the third produces smoke but no fire.
It's the first day of Spring, well, not really, but it's the first day that has felt like it. A man is waiting on one of my benches, hoping to see a face he's seen a few times. The bench was once glossy and green, but its paint has been worn off, replaced by a succession of bird shit and alcoholics. A pigeon is pecking at one of last night's cans, rattling it along the gravel. There is a wall of trees behind the man, new additions and ancient architects. Beyond them, a noisy road, although it's soothing to the few who have been in the city too long to notice the irony. The man on the bench might just turn into one of those few because he cannot leave yet; he has a loose end to tie up.
A watch hangs on his wrist, too old and beautiful to be his. It's a gift or a piece of inheritance. He watches it like a train conductor, determined to avoid a delay. The face tells him it's three o'clock. He adds two hours and twenty minutes, as he knows he has to and realises it's twenty past five. Soon enough, the hordes will arrive, jumping off their trains and onto the grassy hills and gravel terraces. There's not much they prefer to do over drinking a couple after a long day, and how can anyone blame them? Life after five is not all it's cracked up to be. After five, they have decisions to make; chores to complete, hair to wash, dinners to cook, arguments to win, friendships to maintain, and loose ends to tie. If you ask me, nine to five isn't quite long enough.
There's a shriek, a splash, and then another pair of both. The man looks up, cracking his neck with his suddenness. One of the teenagers is waist-deep, hoisting the little boy back onto dry land. In front of him -at the edge of the bank- his friends watch on, and the parents pull the little boy by his chubby arms. The parents thank the quick-reacting teenager as he lifts himself out on his own steam. Althewhile, the escapee chuckles at his hero's sodden state, fueled by the euphoria of cold water. It doesn't take long before his sister joins in, but she's not content standing on the sidelines. Her eyes are tempted by the ripples and the sun sparkling between them. Before she has her chance to take a step closer, her dad has her by the collar, expelling the mischief from her eyes with the tightening of his grip.
The man on the bench is wandering again, from the cackling kids to the water and now back to the pigeon. But only his eyes make the journey from one to the next. The pigeon has made her way down the embankment, and her neck is bent as she tries to catch her reflection between ripples. He's rechecking his watch, three thirty-one. Time is running out; men like him never stay for as long as they should, although he likes to believe he might. It's one of the reasons he lives two hours and twenty minutes out of sync with everybody else. To him, it's a clever way of separating himself from the world, as if that's even a possibility. I've seen plenty of his type walk through my park or sit aimlessly on my benches. These types do nothing other than lie to themselves. Right now, he's telling himself there's not much point in sticking around, although he knows the face he's looking for won't be much longer. She's on the same train every day, a woman of routine, one of those individuals run by the commands of her calendar. He's standing up, stretching his arms into the air like shadows at the end of a long day, and for a moment, I can't tell if he's about to leave.
"Don't go," I call, but he's never understood me. He's still standing there, flicking his gaze from the pigeon at the water's edge to the teenagers on the other side. Their grills started to smoke.
"You're wasting your breath," says the pigeon, lost in her complexion.
"You're wasting your time. You won't get any prettier."
"Oh, real nice. Aren't you supposed to be happy today?"
"Happy?" Pigeons have always been a confusing bunch; spitting out lines as if they know every piece to every puzzle.
"Yeah, happy, you know, like the thing the humans do with their mouths."
"You mean smile?"
"Smile, happy, what's the difference? All I'm saying is, don't take out your anger on me."
"Anger?"
"Yeah, you know. It's like when the humans get loud and start breaking stuff."
"You sure know a lot for a pigeon," I say, and she flies over the man's head and lands on the bench behind him. He's still standing but not moving.
"I've heard that before. Ever since I was born, I knew I was smarter than most of my kind. Usually, pigeons can't tell their left wing from their right." She was right there.
"Well, if that's the standard you're measuring yourself against, then you are indeed a clever pigeon."
"I don't mind your words, but your tone could use work."
"Sorry, my friend. It's been a long day," I say, and the man's sitting down again.
"Hey! Some warning would have been nice," she squawks flapping herself out of the way. "And you think you've had a long day. I've been pecking that damned can all afternoon, and still, nothing's coming out. Plus, I've had to avoid a pair of Beagles, a Tabby and this guy's ass."
"Maybe the can is empty."
"They're never empty."
The shadows have cast their spell, vanquishing the sun from the sky. But he's still sat where he started, checking his watch every five minutes. The nine-to-fivers are too late for the sun they were dreaming about as it turned their offices into onsens. Tilting their heads to the sky, they wonder what changed and why so quickly. But there's one who ventures beyond the road and through the trees to walk along the gravel path, despite the grey canvas above. She's here out of routine, called by her calendar. But the face she's looking for isn't where she thought it would be. What's changed, she thinks, and why so quickly?
"These people are useless sometimes, don't you think?" She's making her way to a branch just above the man and his bench.
"That might be, but in a battle of uselessness, you'd probably lose."
"Useless... me? I'm not the one who can't keep the sun out for a few extra hours." Typical pigeon, thinking everything in the world is as easy as flapping a pair of wings.
"I'm sure you'd do a much better job."
"There it is again. If I was so useless, then I wouldn't be able to do this, would I?" She says, then dives from her branch and lands on the man's shoulder. There's a shout, then a swing of the arms before he's standing up again, this time to run away.
From across the river, the woman who’s still looking for a familiar face sees what she’s looking for.
Thanks for your support and time! Writing wouldn’t be so fun without you all. If you want more, check out my back catalogue, subscribe and follow me on Insta here.
P.S. My debut novel Live, Remember, Forget. is coming this year.
Love, Luke