Waiting For A Soldier

• Katana Gleeson, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2015

There she is again. Sitting on the park bench, holding her coat tight to block out the cold winter air. Day after day she comes, waiting for her loved one, but he never shows. She sits there silently watching the people walk by. But he never arrives. She hasn’t heard from him for 54 years, since 1944, but she still believes she will find him one day. Her soldier will come home to her, she’s sure.
I watch her from across the path, she’s fascinating, truly. Her yellow flower on her grey hat that matches her suit blows in the wind and her black kitten heels tap against the concrete in beat with her wrinkled fingers that drum against her cute brown purse. Year after year, week after week, summer autumn, winter, spring. She never skips a day. I feel sorry for her as I watch her. She’s lonely, childless, friendless, but she still has love in her heart. Is that all she needs?
Sparrows fly down and occupy the empty space on the seat beside her. They peck at her coat but she doesn’t seem to notice. Children run by, she’s seen them grow up each day for 54 years. She’s seen them being pushed in their prams by their mothers. She’s seen them trip and fall as they learn to walk. She’s seen them run after their new school friends. She’s seen them walk past holding hands with their high school sweet heart. She’s noticed the wedding rings on their fingers. And she’s watched the baby bump grow. But still her soldier hasn’t come. But she won’t give up hope.
She pulls his photograph out of her purse. She runs her fingers along his handsome face. The love inside her makes her feel young still. She kisses it softly then puts it back in her wallet where it can be protected. Just like the soldiers spirit is protected by her heart.
I watch her as she hums, her shoes still clicking on the pavement, her fingers still beating against her purse. She seems peaceful and happy. I want to talk to her but I am afraid. She hasn’t spoken to anyone in years. She’s sat through the snow, through the storms and through the heat of the hot summers day, but she has not uttered a single word and I wonder if she still remembers how to.
The bell of the church in the town rings the mark of five o’clock. Just like every evening, she stands up and makes her way back to her home.
The next day I wait for her to come. It’s nine am. She’s late this morning. It’s 2 pm. She must be sick. For weeks she doesn’t come, then weeks turns into a month. I know where she is. I know, after all these years she has finally found her soldier.