To see value in another

I hold my pen, staring at a blank page. A processed piece of wood rests unmoved on my desk. And I understand I can make nothing of it. There is no life in it. So I stand up from my chair, feeling the cold air brush against my hair from the open window. My gaze shifts up to the gray skies, to the idle silence of cars passing by. I take my pen and shove my notebook into my pocket before stepping outside.

It is cold now, the wind making the air feel transparent like glass. Walking aimlessly through a city I know by the memory of yesterday, I search for something to solidify today's existence. A few minutes of walking leads me to a park. There I find the melody of a sole violin playing somewhere across the wet grass. The music isn't of quality, but I have never quite heard anything like it before.

A bench that had stayed dry from the rain under a tree was a welcome enough sight to approach. And so I sat there, hearing debatable music falling on deaf ears, watching people without names walking by to a place without a face. Places built by hands. Names written by loved ones. People who lived and experienced an existence completely separate from mine, walking for an unknown reason. All of them are strange. I sit and look at those people. The violin sounds like a messy orchestra whose name I do not know, curling into something almost familiar with every off-note.

One of the passersby looks back at me. Brown eyes and black hair. He stops, bag in hand, and comes over. He says nothing as he sits next to me on the bench. He stares blindly forward, seeming to start counting the people passing by under his breath. I join him by trying to remember as many faces as I can.

"Hundred," he murmurs under a harsh breath. I could maybe recall ten faces at most, and that will become nothing in a few minutes. Too many look alike, too many pass by to remember. "I wish I could remember all of them," I told him. He hums, pointing to himself. "Try to remember me then."

"What about the rest?"

"Someone else will remember them."

So I look at him. Short stature, small eyes and a long nose, dark blue coat and a cheap bag. His hair has a curled texture similar to a cloud. He is young with old eyes, and with a kind frown. "You think you can point me out of a crowd?" he suddenly asks.

"Sorry, I don't believe I can point myself out of a crowd."

"Then look at him." The man pointed to one of the crowd. The one he points to and the one next to me seem almost exactly the same. "What is the difference between me and him? Quick, before he goes away."

I look between the two, quickly noting anything my eye catches. "...He is slightly taller. Broader shoulders. Shorter legs... You smell like cheap perfume." and the stranger goes beyond what my eye can see. The man next to me sighs, looking dissatisfied. "My perfume isn't cheap. Not for me, at least. And I am pretty sure my legs are the same as his."

"Oh, sorry."

"Don't apologize."

And silence follows. The silence is overwhelmed by the tapping of rain and a violin dancing in the air. It feels as if played wrongfully, even when I do not know if there is an original correct way to play it.

“I feel more blind than the blind. I can't even word myself correctly,” I complain to myself, the man beside me glancing at my bitter expression.

“Because you got my height wrong?”

“No. Do you hear this music in the background?”

The man tilts his head back as if in surprise, looking behind himself to find the violin. “I didn't notice it before. It sounds unfamiliar.”

Irritation floods me as the music becomes softer. I had thought it bland before, when now I can note the undertones of color behind the noise of the crowd. “It makes me feel so incapable to be unable to grasp its beauty.”

“You know, you can always ask them, the player. Maybe it has no beauty to grasp.”

“...I can always do that, I guess, yes. I can.” And I continue to sit.

“Can I tell you something?” the man asks. He stares up, raindrops hitting his eyes. In the faint sunlight I can make out the softer features of his face, his well-defined neck. I hum, not finding a reason to decline. “My lips are tied, your tongue isn't. You are free to speak.” Through the humid air my own throat is a little dry. I don't talk so much usually. Perhaps I should get some water after.

“The man that passed by, the one I pointed to before, he is my brother. He isn't supposed to be alive. I, myself, am going to die tomorrow too. Cancer, something else too. I didn't care to listen."

“...” I glance at him again, making eye contact with a past stranger. A proclaimed future body of carbon hosting no breath. But I was never good with chemistry, nor with words. I itch to ask further, but my lips won't move.

Instead, my fingers move without my consent, drawing the blank piece of wood out from my pocket. “May I try to remember you the only way I know?”

“Go ahead.”

So I move the pencil within my hand on to the paper; the movement aligns to my own arm, my own body. The man quietly gazes upon the street; the longer he does, the stranger he becomes. But in a way, the lines do listen to me. They don't stretch or waver, even if they move to the right simply too far or smudge a little. Like this, ten minutes passed, the rain wetting the paper a notable amount all the while.

I give it to the man. He looks at it. His smile is soft, fitting to his face perfectly. “So this is how I look? A little wonky, a little… valued here. Thanks. May I keep it?”

“How will I remember you?”

“I see you will; I trust your eye enough.”

Without another word, I start to scribble another quick sketch, the man sitting for another minute as he continues to stare at the one in his hand. Once he stands up, I place my pen back inside my pocket. The sketch is more absurd, the lines not complete. But somehow the quiet peace of his added smile brings it all together nonetheless. The man gives me another soft smile before going away. “Goodbye.” He walked toward the same corner his brother had gone around. And I suddenly realized I didn't even ask for a name.

I never saw him again, and the drawing I have of him is barely human but for the smile. I hope he is resting in peace.