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The hill seemed long and steep to the old man, and each day he found it a little more difficult to climb. When he was a young man, driving his car home in the evening, he did not even notice that it was a hill, although now it was difficult for him to remember to that time in his life. But he had noticed as a young boy. Yes, he had noticed it and had been very aware of it on the hot afternoons, carrying his books home from school or packages from the store. But when he really noticed it was on those Saturday afternoons when he would ride his bicycle home, and on such times he would even think about the hill and whether it had always been there and he would count the bushes in the yards, as he pushed past them and would wonder whether he could reach the top before he became out of breath. Now he was an old man and it was a hill to him again. He could not quite remember where it was that he rode to on those Saturday afternoons or what he did, but he could remember very well riding home and thinking about the hill. He could not remember just when it was that the hill had become a hill to him again, but like all things that come with age, he supposed that it had come gradually.
The old man never noticed approaching the top of the hill anymore. He would just glance up from his shoes and be there and would carefully turn and start down the street toward his house before he would look down again and resume the struggle of his thoughts. But today his thoughts were interrupted and he did not look down again, for he was watching something in the distance, shining dully in the afternoon light. It was on the same side of the street where he was walking, and the same side which his house was on, in the stubbly grass just to one side of his mailbox, snuggled against the last of old Cynthia Butler’s rose bushes.
It was small and round and close to the ground, and he had his suspicions, but he held them as he came closer and closer, down the hill, towards the object. He had guessed at what it was, but now he was sure and he was slightly surprised, although he felt strange about being surprised and knew inside that he shouldn’t be. It was a big, white, creamy beach ball, and looking at it tasted of vanilla suckers. He knew where it had come from and who it belonged to and he looked up the gently sloping driveway to the deserted pile of tricycles. He knew that the little children across the street had been out playing with it, as they played with it every afternoon, and that they had left it lying there to roll slowly down the driveway and across the street and come to rest up against the last of old Cynthia Butler’s rose bushes, just to one side of his own mail box. By now the children had forgotten all about the ball and were in their house taking their naps, and he was standing outside, looking at it and thinking.
He could have just picked it up and placed it over in their yard, only it would not have been fair to do that, and besides he didn’t want to touch it if he could help it. He could have just walked around the other side of it, only that would have meant walking on the grass around old Cynthia Butler’s last rose bush. He could see from the corner of his eye that she was watching him, and a corner of her spectacles glinted from behind the curtains of her bedroom window.
He would not have liked to walk around her bush, but the last think in the world he wanted was for her to see him walk around her bush. There was only one thing to do. He swallowed hard, and ignoring old Cynthia Butler and the creamy white beach ball, walked right past it, crossing over the invisible path it had traveled.
He knew that their father would be home in a little while and bring in the toys they had left outside. He would see the beach ball and would walk across the street and pick it up and put it under his arm and bring it back right across the path which the old man was making now and would bring a little of the old man’s path in with him so that it would become part of the ball and would be played with until it was young again. There was nothing the old man could do but keep on walking.
But what if he should come home and not look across the street? What if he shouldn’t even notice the ball but just wheel the tricycles into the garage and go on into the house leaving the ball there for the night. The old man squeezed his eyes tight and prayed hard as he walked across his yard. There was nothing to do but go in the house and wait.
The old man thought of many things over his meal so that he would not think of the time. He thought back to the earliest time he could remember to when he was a very small child and someone would be pushing him back and forth on a swing, and the laughter and shouting in the street did not hinder his thoughts. He pushed the tiny pieces of rice back and forth on his plate and with his napkin wiped away the few pieces that clung to his chin. He remembered being jiggled on his father’s knee and the feeling that he had when his father threw him up in the air and caught him just before he hit the floor. He noticed his coffee tasted bitter and he drank it with a great deal of cream and sugar. He remembered how he grew up and all the games he used to play as a young boy, and how Cynthia Butler used to win them. But there was one game she couldn’t win and he remembered how slow she used to swim and how he would always catch up to her in the water and how she would scream and laugh. The yelling and the laughter hardly bothered him at all as it moved away from him and away from the street, and he remembered how heavy Cynthia was, and yet how light and quiet, hunched on the back of his bicycle with her arms around his waist. The sudden silence reminded him of the time and he ambled out the front door and across the longest angle of his yard.
The old man saw the roof of a car emerge at the head of the hill and he watched the car hum smoothly and slowly down the hill and stop before a mail box. He was anxious, very anxious until he saw the ball wasn’t there. The hand that had reached out from the car came back empty and the car turned sharply into the driveway. The car stopped half way up and a tired young man stepped out and wheeled four tricycles into the garage. He got back into the car and edged it in after them. He trudged up the steps to the front door and disappeared into the house. The old man sighed and then laughed to himself for the first time in a long time. For the first time in a long time he laughed at nothing at all, for nothing at all was really funny and he just stood there laughing to himself about it. He was glad that the young man had not found the ball to take in. It was bad enough that the children had found it and had taken it in, but the young man would not have been able to take it in correctly. It was better for the children to do it for they know how. He walked past the mail boxes and the lonely rose bush and did not even notice old Cynthia Butler peeking out at him from behind the curtains of her bedroom window. He walked on up the hill toward the invisible park where he knew the benches would be waiting, filled with all the old men smoking their pipes and reading evening newspapers. But he also knew something else. He knew that there would be swings, row upon row of empty swings, and he was happier than he had been in a very long time.
The world is transformed with words, one person at a time.
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