50 Degrees and Sunny

My narrative poem assignment inspired by my time in Madrid.


50 Degrees and Sunny

It was one of those perfect do-nothing days: 50 degrees and sunny, sufficiently warm without sweating. The park looked unnatural with prearranged flora and last night’s sodded grass, but no one was concerned—the city was cheerful for spring. With a friend by my side and a brioche in my hand, we sat on a dewy bench surveying the strolling of older couples. It was, in fact, mainly older couples, hand-in-hand, enjoying prescribed together time outside their TV living rooms. It came as no surprise to me that my partner was plutonic. We watched from a distance another plump pair amble by on the cracked sidewalk. The trees’ shade couldn’t hide the brightness in their faces. Her face, round and wrinkled, suggested a moment forgetting the troubles of the world, the conflicts in her life, the issues of her marriage—it was the face that only a destinationless walk can bring. In that scarce Sunday moment, her next step hit the jutted cement at a right angle and her hand slipped from the man’s. We tried hard to stifle, but laughter is an unavoidable reaction to a face-first tripping. But then we noticed her husband’s worried look as her hand hovered over her mouth. At our distance, I believed her lip was bleeding. What was taking her so long to get up? I wanted to go to her, grab her by the shoulders and look her in the eye and say, “It’s okay, I’ve tripped before too,” but I didn’t know Spanish. As she struggled to get up for the longest five minutes of my do-nothing day, we walked by the couple, pretending that nothing happened, for her.