A Short Story By Hemingway On A Melancoly Night Poem by Joshua Bantum

I sat upon a bench covered in more snow than night,
but more night than street light.

Waiting for the bus,
searching for the larger head lights in the street.
'They may come tonight' I said 'or not'
I didn't know for I hadn't checked the time, nor did I remember the day.

An older women that was on the bench to my left had heard me. She was imprinted into the snow as much as the snow had been printed into her.

The silence of the melancholy listened to our conversation that hadn't started.
And when that women stared at me,
the melancholy began to look back,
and in her eyes I saw its reflection
So I spoke before the two found each other.

'Why do you look into the snow and wait for the bus,
why wait in the darkness and look for the lights? '

Like pearls discovered from inside the flesh of a forgotten clam, her eyes opened up to me and found my answer.

' I am coming from India, a land of humidity and opulence... Opulence for some but humidity for all'

I asked her why she had been there,

so she found me again, her eyes even being able to stare through the snow which had gained weight.

'I went to look for content people'

I smiled, 'we'll surely you had to find some, it is a large country.'

She did not smile back, 'I found none, just happy and sad people'

She blinked, and the flesh surrounding her pearls folded into the folds of skin almost unnoticeably like how that snow fell into the rest of the surrounding snow
almost
unnoticeably.

' and where do you come from? ' I asked,

'Before India I was in northern Italy, Tuscany, where the history is rich, but the present is poor... Poor to most, but the history is rich for all.'

I was surprised, another place, another time.
So I asked her again, as I could have a hundred times over, 'and why were you there? '

She smiled first that time. ' I was looking for content people'

Quickly I responded, ' and you found none? '

'I found one, I think, but I couldn't be sure, for I only met them for a moment'

Now, I had let the silence of melancholy rest for some time.

'and where are you from again? ' I asked after a few moments, thinking I had forgotten the answer from before.

Her smile had returned, and it was soft, perhaps the softest skin ever
had surrounded those aged bones,
as if time had strained itself
just to create her.

'before Italy I was in Egypt, where it is dry and ancient... it is only dry for some but it is ancient
for all'

I asked sharply, before she could assume I would, 'and you didn't find many who were content? '

'Ohh, just one, but I can't say for sure because they left before I cared to ask'

That time we smiled together, and her soft presence became even softer, her smile assumed her person, and she became light and warm as the snow which melted from its own company
and shifted by the whims of any one who cared to breathe.

'And where are you from madam? '

'I am from those places
and here'

I waited to speak, though there was no reason too...

'and have you met any content people here, where the air is cold and complacency is everywhere'

At that moment,

The large headlights pressed out from the darkness like two bubbles rising to the surface of a still lake, quickly and with momentum. When it stopped, by habit, I rose quickly and was unable to stop myself from entering the bus.

I was able to say to her just before the doors closed,

'well, at least complacency is only common for some here...'

and with a smile I turned my back and heard her whisper
'and the air only stays cold for some as well...'

I looked back out the windows as we departed deeper into the suburbs of Montreal, and there she stayed, created into the snow.

The bus rode on into the night, the melancholy had spoke and the silence of it subsided for now. I felt joyed,
I felt satisfied
and accomplished, but I felt many things more,
many things that are much harder to put into words than this story which never happened.

'A short story by Hemingway on a Melancoly Night' by Joshua Bantum