Sunday, April 23, 2017

Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Crayola

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Grey. Everything around him bore the lifeless mask of descending hues of grey. He stared blankly around his office cubicle and noted the second hand on the analog clock ticking slowly. One minute seemed to take an hour to drone by. Tick, tick, tick. The steady rhythm did nothing to ease the dull ache in the back of his skull. He needed to focus somewhere else, that clock was going to drive him mad. He straightened a wry paperclip on his desk. Blew dust off the screen of his desktop computer. Fiddled with the cup of pens. Then he set to work on the stack of papers staring at him from the center of the wooden top. 

Appointment reminders, deadline warnings, and printed emails. His palms grew sweaty. Tick. Facts sheets, newspaper articles, Tick. Tick. His heart rate increased. Invoice notices, to-do lists, Tick, grey. The man's breaths now came in shallow bursts. Tick, grey, shuffle, Tick. Tick. Tick.

The man jumped to his feet. Knocking the chair back a bit, he reached for his phone and his hat, then fled the tiny office. It's close enough to lunch. May as well take it in the park. He figured. Lightly shaking his head in an attempt to clear it from the mini meltdown, the man headed out the door.

Clutching his fast food bag in one hand while holding his cell to his ear with the other, the man headed toward the only available seat he could find- an iron park bench not even a block away from his office. He seated himself in the concrete covered park, hung up the phone, and proceeded to unwad the crumpled paper bag. Shoving a lukewarm fry into his mouth, he surveyed his surroundings. Concrete sidewalks. Concrete fountains. Iron benches. Faded black lampposts. Icky grey circles on the ground where someone had discarded their unwanted chewing gum. The man sighed long and hard. More hues of grey. The made-to-order grease in his mouth lost its flavor. Such was how life would always look, it appeared. 

A warm breath of air rushed by the man, reminding him that the chill of winter was quickly being replaced. He noted the areas to either side of the concrete sidewalks where the dead grass would soon look less dead. He quietly snorted to himself as he watched a little girl sitting in the grass just under the "Do Not Step On Grass" sign. She was loudly singing "If You're Happy and You Know It" while plucking individual stalks of the semi-dead material.

That is if you can even consider it singing. The disgruntled man murmured while chewing. He furrowed his eyebrows as he assessed the scene playing out before him. What mother would let her child walk out of the house looking like that? He rolled his eyes referring to the multi-colored outfit the child was sporting. Rainbow striped leggings, covered by a ballet-tutu-style hot pink skirt, a sparkly purple long-sleeve shirt, a blue vest with the word CUTE on the back, and a pink knit hat covering her head. Why, the kid was the epitome of colorful right down to her mismatched socks and light up green sneakers. Shaking his head, the man turned his body to face the other direction. Miss Crayola Explosion was making his already overstimulated brain pound even harder. 

He had just shoved the last bite of his once frozen burger into his mouth and was beginning to wad the bag up into a tiny ball when he felt a light tug on his jacket sleeve. He turned slowly, completely clueless as to what dare disturb the last few precious moments of his reprieve, and found himself staring at the very colorful creature that he had turned away from only moments before. Getting to look at her now from the front, the man first noticed the bright blue of the little girl's eyes in contrast to her overly pale skin. He also took in the sparkly unicorn that threatened to attack him from the front of her shirt and the large rhinestone butterfly that decorated the girl's knit hat. 

Too busy pondering why anyone would want to wear a full-blown knit hat on a warm day like today, the man allowed awkward seconds to pass with the little girl staring at him. His mind drew a blank as he tried to guess what the girl could want. So he finally asked, albeit a bit gruffly, "What do you want?"

The look of hope on the small thing's face never wavered as she innocently raised her left fist. Clutching in between dirty fingers, the small girl held a single dandelion out to him. 

His face grew dark and his brows drew together, "What's that for?" He asked blankly.

She continued holding her fist out to him as her small voice answered "You looked sad. I brought you a flower."

The wad of trash almost dropped from the man's hand. Who did this kid think she was? "Um. Well, I'm not sad and that isn't a flower. It's a weed, kid. Just a weed." The man shook his head in disgust. Geez, what do fairy tales do to kids these days? Somebody's got to wake these kids up to reality. Life's not all rainbows and unicorns all the time. 

The little girl continued standing there and continued holding that grubby little fist out to him. He was becoming impatient and attempted to visually scan the area for the little thing's keeper. She wouldn't leave, so he repeated "It's just a weed." To add emphasis to his mounting frustration. 

The girl's eyes grew serious, and she drew her hand back slightly to assess her tiny offering. The silence lasted only momentarily when she began "You know, Sir? I don't think it is a weed." She raised her eyes to meet his again. "Because, you know, weeds are thorny. Weeds are useless. Weeds are kinda sorta like concrete. They're everywhere and ugly looking." She scuffed her shoe on the sidewalk below her.

The man stared at her as though she were crazy, and the small thing had the nerve to giggle! He was going to respond to her, but she cut him off. 

"No, Sir. This isn't a weed. It's pretty and yellow. It's a flower. Bees like it. Butterflies like it. I like it. So it's a flower. Plus!" Her mouth turned up into a wide toothless grin. "Plus, it can make people happy!" Once more she held her treasure out to the him. 

This time he was too dumbfounded to do anything but accept the wilted offering. Mindlessly he tucked it into the pen pocket of his button-up. The little girl's eyes danced as she looked from her "flower" back up to him. This time she allowed the silence. 

Suddenly, a woman in her early thirties frantically came rushing up behind the girl. The look of relief in the woman's eyes was evident as she proclaimed "Oh! Maggie! There you are! I've been hunting for you everywhere!" She reached for the girl and gave the man the once over. The relief flashed to panic, but only briefly. The man could understand what with the way the world was these days. It sure as anything wasn't a world off an Andy Griffith set anymore. The woman knelt down and turned the girl toward herself appearing to check the kid over. Then she stood, straightened her own top, and addressed the man. "I'm terribly sorry if my daughter bothered you, Sir. She can get very excited."

The man waved his hand and quickly said "No, it's fine. She and I were having quite the conversation."

The woman laughed with embarrassment, took her daughter's hand, and left as quickly as she appeared. As she walked away she lifted the knit hat from her daughter's head, revealing a completely bald scalp. She kissed the girl's bare head, gently squeezed her to her side, and then replaced the pink butterfly piece where it had been. The man's lunch turned in his stomach. Poor Miss Crayola Explosion.

Quietly, he made his way back to his office. Sitting down at his desk, the massive stimulation of paperwork threatened once again to overtake him. He covered his heart with his hand in a knee-jerk reaction to stave off the impending feeling of doom. When he did so, his fingers brushed something not pocket-like. The dandelion. 

In one seamless movement, he headed back out of his cubicle, down the hall, and over to the stand-up water cooler. He returned moments later with a plastic cup half filled with water and set it in the center of his desk. Then he gently placed the wilted little dandelion into the water and smiled. Crayola was right. He chuckled to himself. It is a flower.

For the rest of the month he took his lunch break at the same time on the same park bench. Everyday Crayola would come walking through holding her mother's hand. The man would watch as the woman would sit at a bench a few feet away from his and quietly pull out a book or knitting project while her daughter played in the grass around her. Each day the little girl would pick a dandelion and bring it to him and then, when his break was over, he would put the new flower into a fresh cup of water that sat waiting on his desk. The routine had gotten so comfortable that the man flew through his work each day just waiting to go on lunch break. Each day the signs and sounds of spring were more prominent. The grass was getting greener. The sky bluer. The birds could be heard on the powerlines. And now, everywhere the man looked, he saw dandelions. Flowers. 

As the month wore on, he began to notice small changes in the little girl. First it was just that her singing was quieter than usual, then she didn't sing at all. One day her pale face seemed even more pale and she appeared skinnier than usual too. The worry lines on her mother's face appeared deeper, as well. Still they came and still she would bring him a freshly picked dandelion each day. Sometimes he would give her a small piece of candy in exchange for it. Or he'd pick his own single wildflower for her and trade it. No matter how sick Crayola seemed, her eyes always danced when she held her dandelions. 

One day he sat on the bench, focused on stabbing his salad with the chintzy plastic fork when he felt a familiar tug on his sleeve. He turned to find the little girl holding out her dandelion, but his breath hitched at the sight of her. Here stood his little Crayola Explosion with an oxygen cannula tucked in a loop into her nose, behind both ears, and meeting together under her chin. Behind her stood her mother, eyes teary, holding a pink paisley bag with the connected canister. Before he left that day, Crayola took her frail little arms and wrapped them around his neck. She squeezed tightly and he returned it. The threesome shared a smile and parted ways.

On Thursday, the man got stuck in a meeting. He anxiously checked his watch and tapped his toe praying that the speaker would shut up soon. The minutes again turned to hours. He rapped his finger on his notepad and loosened his necktie. Checking his watch, he groaned. At this rate he'd miss lunch altogether. He'd never missed lunch once. He just couldn't today. Not any day. He continued though the rest of the meeting bouncing as if he needed a bathroom break. He made no attempt to hide his anxiety. His only priority was getting to that park bench. He hadn't the faintest of idea how many dandelions that girl had left in her, but he wanted to be there for every single one.

Finally, it was over and he bolted for the door. He literally ran the near block to the bench, even forgetting his lunch back in his cubicle. Stopping, breathless, he searched the park for any sign of Crayola or her mom. Nothing. His heart fell. He'd missed them. 

Checking his watch and begrudgingly acknowledging the lateness of the hour, he turned to head back to his cubicle. Almost subconsciously, his eyes fell to his usual park bench. Across the iron bars that made up the seat laid a single dandelion. Tears pooled in the corners of the man's eyes as he bent to pick it up. Tucking the flower into the pocket of his shirt, he vowed not to be late tomorrow.