Today I have a special treat for you - a short story by the Foxcub :-) I'm posting it here because I believe it’s a tale of breathtaking beauty for a young guy and I think it deserves to be heard. The words are all his own.
by Chris Robertson
One more crane for the grace of her. That makes twenty-one.
It was a typical Seattle Friday, dreary, raining, almost glowing from the sparkling lights and flashing signs. It was the springtime, and even though it was late and rainy, people were still bustling through the park, some sitting eating, others playing games or simply on their late night joy. The image was like a famous painting, so much to focus on, to notice, and neither the time nor the effort would people take from their daily living to notice him.
One more crane for the grace of her. That makes twenty-two.
It was a Japanese man, sitting on the bench in the centre of the park. He was focussed on reading everything the paper had to offer, and he was cleverly on the only park bench under the cover of a tree. As he looked down, holding his glasses as he did so, he saw the small puddle forming near his feet. He had a fairly uncomfortable-looking button-up shirt on and jeans that made him look as if he was desperately trying to fit in any way he could. He stroked back a lock of black hair that had fallen into his vision and reached into a small brown folder, out of which he pulled a colourful orange square, and began to make a small origami crane.
One more crane for the grace of her. That makes twenty-three.
He slipped on his thick, tanned leather coat and continued reading his newspaper. This sight of a forty-year-old man, sitting alone in the cold rain… And the origami… What was that?
One more crane for the grace of her. That makes twenty-four.
He stood up, to which I realised he was possibly no more than five-feet-five in height, before he left for his small city apartment.
What he left on that park bench was art and thoughts deeper than those of the ignoring others. He had left the cranes to spell a word. A word that at this time possibly meant more to him than anything else. Lily.
One more crane for the grace of her. That makes twenty-five.
The note he left explained everything.
She was his girlfriend who, on her way to the airport in Japan, crashed her car into a tree and, due to the faulty airbag, she died. He would sit on the bench every day and read the newspaper. Every time he thought of her, he made a crane and began to spell her name on the bench next to him. The reason he sat under the tree was because it was the same type of Abies firma, a native Japanese tree, that had been planted in the centre of the Seattle park.
When he came back the next morning, it was grey and raining, and he was still dressed in his button-down shirt and tanned leather overcoat. When he turned up at the bench he fell to his knees and, under the shade of the Abies firma, burst into tears. Every morning he would turn up and see the cranes had blown away, and that was his wish—that if the cranes he makes for her can fly away, then maybe so can his sad thoughts of her. Maybe one day he will sit on the bench, finish his paper and not have to make a crane.
No more cranes for the grace of her. That leaves one loving man.
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