L.A Narrative, written by Amy Bartko
There are two choices you
have, every single day. You can be bitter, nasty and crude to every stranger
passing on the streets, or you can give your best to wake up your senses with
kindness. Everyone is fighting their own battle in life, if you sit and sonder you will uncover the great
detail in the blurred background of your painting.
sonder n. the realization that each
random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own- populated
with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness-
an epic story that continues invisibly around you like a small anthill
sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other
lives that you'll never know existed. In which you might appear only once, as
an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the
highway, as a lighted window at dusk.
There
are many things the average mind doesn’t come across through daily routine
thoughts. That’s why they should be taught.
In
the evening, while I was walking home from work through the city. Through the misty
autumn weather, I noticed an older lady whom had become tired and weary, and
was wandering alone in the park. Though this didn’t mean very much to me
personally, I felt compelled to want to reach out to give her a hand if she
needed it. It looked as if she had been left behind and didn’t know where she
was going. I sat back and watched for a few minutes. While I sipped lightly on
my coffee, I watched her intently as she staggered along the walkway. After
reaching the park bench and then deciding to sit, she gently propped her walker
beside her, then sighed. It had become apparent that she was scared, and
frustrated to be by herself. Though I was only a few feet away, I could see the
exhaustion in her eyes. The way she held herself together was sad, and
depressed; I could tell what had to be done.
Grabbing
my to-go cup off the park table, I nonchalantly wandered down the walkway path
towards her. Admiring the sunset view off the cityscape, I took a seat at the
side of her. The reflection of the sky lit up her face, as she observed me join
her. I noticed her hands at first; they were worn and old, as you’d expect from
a woman in her mid-sixties, as if she has worked a decent good life. Though we
sat there in silence for a few moments, our surrounding filled our ears with
motion. Suddenly, I decided I wanted her to feel comforted. I turned my head slowly
and the woman’s eyes met mine. Her eyes were sad, sunken in and watered, as if
she’d been crying. The irises of her eyes were a bright emerald green; they
popped and took the focus away from the wrinkles that framed them. She turned a
little, so that I couldn’t see her face, then she looked back at me. At first
she sniffled, then brought a folded tissue up to her face, brushed her cheeks
and then smiled sweetly.
She
seemed so wise, as if something really bad must’ve happened to make her this
upset. Though it was none of my business and I knew nothing of this woman, she
was sad. No matter the person, even if they have no one to care from them,
could use a little help from a stranger.
The
longer she sat there with me, the more intrigued I became. Though no words were
spoken, I felt as if the woman was already relaxing with someone near her.
I sighed, “Are you lost,
ma’am?”
No
response from her, her mouth opened, but no sound came out. As if she was
trying to tell me something, but she couldn’t get it out. I reached into my
briefcase and pulled out a pen and a notepad. Then handed it over to her and
the woman started scribbling. It took a few minutes, but she handed me the
folded note, and then squeezed my hand tightly with reassurance. Then she
proceeded to get up, and wobble away.
I sat alone on the park bench, with a note in
one hand and cold coffee in the other. As I watched her stammer away, I forgot
about the note. The folded piece of paper remaining in my hand. I could still
feel the gentle squeeze the woman placed before she left. I had hoped I made
her feel a little better. I placed the note in my pocket until I got to work.
That night I opened the small piece of paper before I fell asleep and read it
silently to myself. Then smiled,
Thank you.
