They pass an old woman sitting on a bench. The old woman is knitting a small, red sweater. The man begins to cry. Write this scene.
: from the perspective of the man, then the woman, and finally the old woman.
The park is peaceful, rhodies in full bloom, bees buzzing around the plump blossoms. I walk slowly with Caroline savoring the heady perfume of the May flowers. We walk hand-in-hand dreaming about the future, our future.
Then I see her: a frail, old lady sitting on a bench, knitting a red scarf. The sun shines on her face, shadows settling in each wrinkle. Her eyes are young and bright. She looks off into the distance as the knitting needles dance in her nimble fingers. Her sweater and skirt swallow her small frame, as if she is shrinking inside her own clothes.
She reminds me so much of Oma that I want to run up to her and jump on her lap. I remember how Oma taught me to knit my very first scarf, bright blue with a fringe. My fingers were clumsy and unsure, the scarf a misshapen patch of uneven fabric. The scarf that still sits in my treasure box.
I had hoped that Oma would make it to my wedding someday, hoped that my bride's something old would come from Oma's treasure box, hoped. I feel the weight of the memories and I feel the hot tears fill my eyes. I squeeze Caroline's hand a little tighter as we pass the little old lady. Oma smiles at me from behind the red scarf, and I feel hope again.
Ugh! Why are we walking around this stupid park again? I should be at home. There is so much planning to do. The wedding is in less that a year. I need a venue, a dress, bridesmaids, groomsmen, cake, flowers, all the details must be perfect.
The ring is already perfect. Of course it should be. It's the exact one I told him to get me. It sparkles on my finger as the sun hits the diamond. My amazing ring outshines all the flowers in this stupid park. My stupendous ring will outlast all the sill flowers. Not to self: find a venue with no rhodies.
Ugh! My feet hurt. Jimmy Choos are not made for this level of activity. But if I want a part of his money and his lifestyle, I have to put up with a walk in the park every so often.
O..M..G.. Is he crying? Why the hell is he crying? Maybe it's that little old chick. I would definitely cry if I had wrinkles like that. Did those wrinkles scare him? Is that why he's crying. Well, I hope his budget can keep up with my Botox then. Maybe it's that hideous scarf that's making him cry. Thank God he has the money to keep me in designer duds. I just love thinking about our future together. Perfect.
"Let's go home," I say aloud and lead him to the car.
Knitting is so peaceful. I love the feeling of the yarn slipping through my fingers and along the needles as the click together rhythmically. I take my knitting everywhere with me. I always have. It's helped me through a lot. Knitting makes waiting in line less boring, using public transit more enjoyable, and it helped me maintain my calm as my husband wasted away in his hospital bed.
That young fella over there reminds me of my Ernie, when he was young of course. We used to walk in the park together on sunny days like this one. I always had my knitting with me, like I said, but I never needed to knit when I was walking with Ernie. Holding his hand made all my worries disappear. Oh dear, it's been almost five years now since he's passed. Never even got to see our newest little grandchild who will never get to wear his new red scarf if I don't focus on this knitting.
Oh! I hope young Ernie over there is alright. Looks like he's got some bad allergies, watery eyes. I wonder if I have a tissue...
Reflection on Day 9: I didn't realize that I had changed the sweater from the prompt to a scarf until I started typing this :) I really enjoyed writing this prompt and I think I will use this concept again in my writing career.