Old men sitting on a park bench

Gnarled hands clutch a sandwich, the cheap white bread peaking out over the wrapper whenever he raises it to his thin lips.  Crumbs gather in the corners of his mouth and on his lap, but he pays them no mind, chewing with abandon and sometimes closing his eyes to really enjoy the taste.  He quietly takes in the rest of the park as he eats, his legs thrown out in front of him and crossed at the ankle as if he is totally at his leisure.  He is unaware that the kids on the playground are also taking stock of him.

"How disgusting," little Emma says.

"He's a pig," chimes in Zachary.

"Probably smells like farts," a young boy named Phoenix will venture.  At this, they all giggle and return to playing in the sand.

Further away, the moms will twitter to each other, heads bent close, trading hawk-like surveillance of their children for surreptitious glances over their strollers at the old man on the bench.

"I heard his kids won't speak with him anymore," Sarah confesses.

"It's so sad to see him all alone every day," Michelle adds.

Laura hesitantly offers, "Should we say something to him?"

Sharon hisses, "are you crazy?  He could be a pervert!" All of them are relieved to have the choice taken from their shoulders and will return instead to their banal gossip.

The man is joined by a friend, another old timer who reveals the depth of their friendship as he silently lowers himself onto the bench as if he never left it.  Crumbs punctuate the corners of the old man's smile, and they too lean in for their own assessments.

"Those kids are total brats," his friend will say.

"No more than we were," the man will defensively suggest.

"Fair enough," his friend will acquiesce.  "What about those hens over there?"

"Oh, they are doing their best."

"Probably true."

They lapse into silence at that point, and debate sharing the secrets that are really in their hearts and minds.  They seem too heavy for playground chatter, so the old man will hold back.  He thinks of how much he hated the sand after seeing so many of his friends die on the beaches of Vietnam.  He is on the verge of letting the memory take him back there when a squeal of delight from one of the children grounds him in the now.  He takes a bite of his liver sausage sandwich, a small luxury he missed when he was in the service, the white bread reminding him of his mother as she stretched every penny over the family of ten.  He looks at the kids and feels a fondness for them and their silly games that took the blood and the fear out of the sand. 

Just as he's about to tear up over nostalgia, or loss, or the passing of time, his friend breaks the reverie by whispering, "I bet those kids all smell like farts."

At that, the old man dissolves into giggles of his own, realizing that not all secrets come from dark places.  

When they are ready to leave, he stands and lets the crumbs from his lap fall into the sand.  He brushes off his face, grateful it's only crumbs and not dirt, blood, or worse.  He's lived with worse.  He gives a respectful nod to the women, who all have the courtesy to look ashamed for not talking with him.  Phoenix will stand in mock salute, but both of the men return it, just as they will return it tomorrow.