Sketch One

It was one of those early spring days in March when the sun shines a palpable light of freshness over everything The Botanic gardens. I sat on my usual bench commanding a view over the city. There was a small patch of warmth on the arm of the bench under my hand.

An hour to myself. But what was an hour? The philosophers say that time passes as a stream of consciousness in between the spaces and that our lives are created by  moments crystallised in time. Is that right? Look at that small snowdrop over there For months now it has been growing under the soil, unknown , unseen by us, and then for one moment of glory we see it flourish and pass. Is that what we are like? Time passing while we sleep and breath and our lives simply  moments of blossom?

“What is it Tom?”  The small boy was hunkered over, his baggy cord trousers wrinkled above his red wellies and his blue dinosaur hoodie too big over his waistband. He was holding a stick and stayed motionless looking at the path. His mother came up, a slim pretty blond girl dressed simply in jeans and a beige belted raincoat. “What have you got? “ She bent over. The little boy prodded something with his stick and the worm wriggled and then was still, camouflaged against the stony path.

“It’s a wriggly worm, she said. “Shall we save it Tommy?”. She put her hand on his, and together they hooked the worm over the stick and carefully and slowly carried it over to the flower bed. “There we are, our good deed for the day. Come on then.” She held out her hand and the two of them moved on, the small boy running to keep up.

An elderly couple plodded past, he bent over slightly with a walking stick and she still light on her feet but slow.  A daily walk , in step with each other all of their lives. They were dressed in muted shades but their eyes were still quick. They knew the names of the trees and flowers and stopped occasionally to notice a new foliage or to comment on a birdsong . A lithe jogger pounded past, plugged into his music, oblivious of his surroundings. Just a daily exercise routine for him.

Snapshots shared with others, marked on the memory of another. Tom may not remember the wriggly worm incident but I will. As a reflector then do I define that moment in his life as real? I was still musing on this when I heard the clock strike. An hour had passed. I picked up my satchel and walked quickly towards the wrought iron gates of the gardens back to work.