Wandering Poet

A Story by A.M Leone

Memories are powerful but disheartening

The Wandering poet

I had just gotten off the bus, my friend Allen followed seconds after, coming to a stop next to me. It often times was a pain to go to school nearly an hour away by bus- Waiting in the freezing temperatures at six in the morning, or standing in the sweltering sun waiting for the bus to come. As we stepped on to the station platform, our friend Emma waited impatiently for us; her foot tapping, gaze switching from the front door to the back door as she waited for us.

Once she saw us she stormed over to us and grabbed Allen’s hand and began to drag him to the cross walk. I followed along while I tried to ignore the feeling of being the third wheel, walking silently only existing when one of them needed validation or an opinion. We made our way across the street to the park that spanned through most of the neighborhood.

It was spring time and nature was in full bloom. The scent of flowers and fresh cut grass filled the air, carried along by the warm breeze that blew softly around us. The birds sang in various pitches and tones yet still managed to whirl them into a harmonious melody. We made our way along the path as we made our way down to the picnic tables and benches. They had just been put in, yet still seemed to grow from the earth, appearing almost natural. It was about four in the afternoon and the sun was still several hours from the horizon, but making its way slowly down.

I hopped up to sit cross-legged on the top of the table, Emma sat on the table top, her legs hanging off, swinging with the breeze. Allen sat between us, normally on the bench. We were all intelligent in our own right- Allen making second in our entire year, myself able to pass my classes without ever opening a book to study, and Emma, an out spoken girl who seemed to always be able to one up you whenever she could. And yet we also couldn’t be more different. Allen wore our school uniform, the bright red sweater, ironed black dress pants, and a pair of hushpuppies that showed no damage from activity. His glasses square with a green border, he resembled the typical nerd portrayed on television.

I was the opposite of Allen, which isn’t too surprising, having been friends for more years than most others. I wore baggy ripped up jeans, my dress pants off before the last bell rang to signal the end of school. My red sweater hidden beneath my giant hoodie. We were both pale but where Allen’s hair was short mine was as long as the school’s regulations would allow, which meant it came down to my ears.

Emma, was the most different from us. She had fiery red hair that her personality matched. She was tall, and as moody as nature itself. She was the nicest person you’d meet. Until you said something she didn’t like or agree with, and then she would go off the handle.

Too busy being wrapped up in our own conversations, we hadn’t noticed that a dark-skinned man who wore a tweed suit, his light-colored shirt held together by the string tie he wore, on top of all this, he wore a wide brimmed fedora approach us. With a smile the man greeted us, his expression warm, comforting and inviting.

“Hello there, I hope that you are all enjoying the day, it is quite a nice one.” She said, his voice warm and silk like.

“Umm hi? Yeah it’s a great day.” Emma said looking at him suspiciously.

Allen eyed him skeptically, living in New York your entire life has a tendency to make one distrustful. It’s a risk of living in the city, while I just remained silent, observing the scene like I do most others. In return to our looks he smiled softly. It is and was a policy of mine to never trust a stranger who smiles too nicely, just as this man did.

“I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind listening to some poems that I’ve written?” he asked us, his velvet voice unwavering, filling the void of silence between them.

“We don’t have any money to give you.” Allen said matter of factly.

Allen’s comment seemed to make the older man’s smile grow bigger, as if he’d expected one of us to respond like that. His response expecting and almost rehearsed, like he had said it to himself millions of times.

“That is quite alright, what is the point of creating something, if you only let those experiences it for money?” he said with a laugh. “It is enough for me to see those appreciate my art.” He tacked on after.

Allen hadn’t wanted to sit and listen but was stuck there because of Emma and I, but because we immediately agreed, he sighed in response and just tried to look as if he had been interested. With a last look between the three of us, he began reciting his poems.

“Bubbling brooks flowing like time.” He began, his voice rich and deep, the words irrelevant but the emotions behind them flowing in waves.

The man’s voice was more powerful than any of the words spoken, his vice enthralling, the natural scene that surrounded us enthralling, making it feel like we were in a fantasy novel and anything was possible.

The poem continued lyrically to an end where the picture his words painted created faded leaving us with only reality once again. To Emma’s and my delight he began his next poem immediately, chorused by the birds and other sounds that filled the background, adding emphasis to the man’s words.

The poem much like the first, was enthralling allowing us to visualize the words he spoke. Though the second poem flying by too quickly, he soon began his third. His voice continued in the same melodic way, engulfing us in his words.

The wind began to take a colder bite to it, the second poem coming to an end as goosebumps began to form on my arms under my hoodie. He began his third and last poem. The birds stopped singing, and the park began to grow quite; too soon the last poem came to an end, bringing with it an imperceptible change. A change that couldn’t be seen until you looked back into the memory.

We stood at the top of the hill over looking the table where we sat, all together, a feeling like it was just yesterday.

“Hey do you remember that time we sat here with Emma?” I asked Allen.

Bellow us, we watched as the three teens beneath us said farewell to the old man, who in turn made his way back to the path. We were both older now, by nearly ten years, the memory still so ingrained in my mind that I can watch it occur below. The cold air blew, forcing us to shrink into our black pea coats.

“Yea man, I still can’t believe you guys made me listen to that. I wonder what ever happened to that guy.” He said just as the man vanished out of the sights of my memory. It was one of the most memorable parts of my life, but with it brought a sad realization.

I looked along the black path that was lined, now by dead grass, though in my eyes I saw it in the bright spring, where the park was alive and booming with activity. My mind was in a different time when three teens were young and had the entire world ahead of them.

Too soon the cold became too much to bare and Allen nudged me as he turned to walk.

“C’mon man, let’s get out of here, it’s too cold out here. “ he said as he began walking back to the truck where I parked.

I began following after him, my mind lost in the realization that no matter how good the event in life, it will eventually become just a memory.