Work Text:
There is an old woman who sits in the park.
She has no bags, no coat, and no hat. She is not ugly, nor beautiful, not thin or fat, not short or tall. She is dark skinned and wears a button up shirt with casual jeans. Her shoes are comfortable, old and worn.
The only two things that those who see her can remember, and they do remember, is the silver ring on her right pinkie finger and her old, old eyes.
There is an old woman.
She does not walk and does not stand and does not speak. She sits quietly, hands folded on the knee of her crossed leg, on an old bench dedicated to that park so long ago that the name on the plaque has long worn off.
She hums sometimes, when the sun is setting and the fog is dense, lightning far off in the sky. A song long forgotten that is deep and low and long.
There is an old woman who sits in the park.
She is not always there when you look but is good company to admire the ark of the trees or the children at play.
Her eyes do not shift and yet she sees all, deep and old as they are.
It is possible, perhaps, that if she is in a good mood and you are in enough trouble, you can whisper your sorrows to the seat of her bench. Perhaps your troubles will lift, or perhaps become worse.
There is an old woman who sits on a bench.
Which park always changes, but the bench never does. Old wood, painted over a dozen times or more, that creaks when your weight shifts to stand.
There is an old woman.
She does not reside in the park. That's just when people take notice.
There is an old woman who sits on a bench.
She is not thin or fat, short or tall, cruel or kind.
She merely is.
There is an old woman who sits on an old bench on an old street.
She watches the protector lay flowers in an old alley and when he looks up, he nods.
She smiles.
The rooftops will be empty tonight.