Waiting

A girl sits, waiting for something to draw -- until an unlikely object catches her eye.

        Bicycles sped past as she watched from the green bench in the corner of the park. Every day, she sat there, with her nearly-filled sketchpad. Every day, she waited for something to draw, but to no avail. She couldn’t find anything worth the last piece of paper she owned. Nothing seemed grand enough, lovely enough, innocent enough to use that last piece for.

So she sat there, rain or shine, on the green bench in the park. She watched the people who passed by, sad, happy, angry, peaceful. They all had stories to tell, every man, woman, and child. Even the animals seemed to ask her, why won’t you draw me? Nevertheless, she sat there, watching and waiting, rain or shine.

She knew one day, she’d have to pick something. Time continued to move forwards, even if she did not want to. Yet as long as she had that last piece of paper, her work wouldn’t be complete, it would forever be in progress. Picking something to draw would be a change, and time would march on, making it complete. She hated to let things be complete.

So she sat there, waiting and watching. She was rarely noticed. Sometimes, a little child would look at her and wave, only to be dragged away by impatient parents. A cat would sit on the bench next to her, staring until she smiled at it. Often, the cat would hiss and leap away, not looking back. She’d watch it go, then return to her waiting.

Finally, one day, she stood from her bench and began to walk. She walked from her bench to the small, untended pond nearby. That’s when she saw it.

A rusted bicycle, pink, with rotting, faded streamers tied to the handlebars. The back wheel was missing, and the bike laid at an angle on the bank, propped up by its kickstand and a couple of small tree limbs. A bike horn clung to the frame of the bicycle, the rubber squeaker torn and muddy.

She stood there and stared at it for a long while. She looked at her sketchpad, then at the bicycle, then at her sketchpad. Shaking her head, she turned to walk away, but something wouldn’t let her. She looked back. The bicycle still laid there, but it wasn’t looking at her in the same way as everything else. It didn’t ask to be drawn, it merely sat there, almost ashamed of itself. Why would you even consider drawing me? It whispered instead.

She knew what she had to do. She sat on the bank opposite the bike, and began to sketch, then shade, then fill in. She captured the essence of the lonely, forgotten bicycle. She did not ask how long it had been there, but it told her anyways. Six months, at least. She smiled sadly. Six months, lost by itself, nobody caring. She could sympathize. She had been sitting on that bench for six months herself.

Soon, the sketch was finished. She stood, and bowing in respect to the bicycle, she walked to the post office. She bought a large envelope and stamps, and slid her sketchbook inside of it. She sent it to her brother. He, at least, would be glad to see that it was complete.

Walking outside, she sniffed. She looked to the right, to the left, and walked forwards. As she crossed the road, a group of bicycles rolled past.

If an observer had been paying attention, they would have noticed.

When the bicycles were gone, so was the girl. She had vanished as the bicycles hid her from view.

Back at the park where she had sat so long, an object slid down the bank of the pond, gravity taking over, as it should have long ago. It was the small, lost, pink bicycle.

Reviews

[kamsuri]

Your writing is nice :)))