An old man with old magic tricks sat next to a bench, on the ground where a flower used to bloom, succumbing to the winter chill. On the bench sat a young man, on the far side from the old one, and on his near side sat a battered box that looked almost empty.
Between the two of them, they looked pretty normal. While the old man looked senile and clueless, the young man was fully awake, aware of everything. He wore just a shirt and crisp new jeans, not caring to what the weather may do to him, even though the trees were bald. His smile was one that never stopped, and it was of genuine love for life. This young man cared for and loved life, and all aspects of it; not just the good, nor just the bad, but everything in between. He looked at everything and just smiled, not accepting or rejecting, merely looking and observing. If in his hands he held a poisonous snake, he would do nothing but smile at it. To him, it was neither beautiful nor ugly. It was just as it was - something that’s there one moment then off the next. Life just happened, and that’s all there is to it for him, sitting and smiling, on the bench off the far side of the old man.
This old man - to describe him, one would need the taste of ginger roots to know his bitterness. He was bitter about the life that seemed to have passed him by with only a few blinks. About how his dreams never did take wing, not a single one of them, and his plans never happened. When he was half his age he wanted to change the world; when he was three quarters there he just wanted a nice house; and now, he didn’t want anything else besides someone to talk to, yet even that has come up short. He was bitter about the young people and how they are careless and carefree, and how he used to be like them. He was bitter about being bitter, because he at least kept his self consciousness, and he hated it.
Anyone who knew this old man was dead, and the ones who do and are still alive have forgotten about him. But even they would not see the old man of the old man any longer. They would see a withered flower that one time, long ago, used to bloom.
Now this withered flower sat still on the ground next to the bench, again, not moving, with the young smiling man to his side, sitting on the bench, and the empty box in between them. They didn’t acknowledge one another, or even noticed one another. They had their own worlds to attend to, wherever those were. So time passed and the stubble grew out from both their chins.
It would seem odd, to have two strangers sitting at so close together when they could’ve chosen not to be. There was all the space in the world for either one of them to move, yet somehow, they stayed there. The bench was like a lamp in a dark room - the most natural thing to do would be to go near it. Everything was between the two of them, right in that spot, with one sitting on the bench and the other on the ground. If one heard, the other did too, and if one saw, the other did too. They could’ve been siamese twins in sensual things, except for their minds interpreted things differently. But neither one moved, and both of them stayed still.
More time passed.The stubble that was in the old man’s and the young man’s chins grew to be a half-beard and a half-mustache. The wind was still, like always.
As his mustache grew, it was at this time that boredom caught up to the young one. While before, life seemed so sweet and nothing could go wrong, something has gone wrong. In fact, life wasn’t as sweet anymore. Things have changed slowly and subtly over the time he grew his neat little curled half-mustache, and somehow he failed to notice. Now the bench, to him, was just not the bench anymore. He wanted more, something else he could possibly cling on to. The only other thing was the box, and like another light in the dark room he share with the old man, he had to go to it.
At first it was an occasional stolen glimpse or so to judge it superficially. Why’s it this so-and-so color? What’s the so-and-so bug near it? And where did that old man get it? Simple little questions to ask of anything. It was harmless, to say the least.
To this young man the box was an itch that grew itchier and itchier. He longed to see what’s inside, a feeling that he had no word to describe. Like he had the right to see - it wasn’t even destiny, or luck, but somehow, to him, he just had to open it. The old man was indifferent to it, after all, acting like it doesn’t belong to him or even exist. Why shouldn’t he?
“Sir - would you happen to know what is in this box?”
The old man turned solidly and squarely. His face was rugged and worn, and the little slit he had for a mouth did not even quiver for so long that they seemed to have no sleep. And now though, in his mind, he tried to quash any reaction, yet it seemed to be uncontrollable to make his laughter erupt with all the air from his lungs. So he didn’t try.
He laughed, and he laughed so hard that if he was drinking anything, it surely would’ve come out his nose. His laugh was coarse, mixed in with the phlegm in his lungs and the spit he threw everywhere. It was heartfelt, and it wasn’t an evil laugh, but one of was affection. Like when a father sees his little boy stumble for the first time while riding his bike, even with training wheels on, and the father laughs and picks up the boy and wipes away the little tears in his little eyes. Like that father and that son, the old man smiled, through whatever teeth he had left.
The young man and the old man looked at each other, smiling, like a father would to his son, however that may be. And as unpleasant as the question it was to the young one, and no matter how odd the old one’s reaction may have been, it didn’t really matter. Life seemed to be full of trivial things whenever we turn - but this, this he knew to be important. The box was closed, and it was offering to squeeze a foot through its lid.
“Please, sir. May I open this box?”
The old man sighed, then nodded. He closed his eyes and kept his smile in his nap.
When the young one dragged the box closer to him, it felt much heavier than it looked. He touched the rough green skin that went around the box and the lid. It felt like the movie theater seats that were crisp and brand new, where no other human had sat on before. The lid reverberated that same aura of vanguard, like asking a heart if it wants to know what pain feels like for the very first time. Of course it would. The lid was asking that young man if he wants to see inside that box - of course he would.
He slipped the top off carefully with closed eyes in a childish way, just to preserve the surprise a while longer. He opened his eyes.
The box was empty. It was as simple as that.
“The box is empty.”
The old man kept still. A tear, possibly, dribbled down an eye. But he kept smiling.
“I know."
