A man and a woman walk through the park together, holding hands. They pass an old woman sitting on a bench. The old woman is knitting a small, red sweater. The man begins to cry. Write this scene.
“Gran,” he whispered through his tears. “I haven’t seen you in so long, why did you hide from me?”
Dropping his wife’s hand, he knelt in front of the old woman. Gently, he grasped both of her gnarled hands in his, stilling them. He drew them to his face, the scent of wool and Evening in Paris filled his nose with memories of the woman who raised him.
“I can’t believe it is you,” he said. “Everyone told me you were dead years ago. I missed you so much!”
The old woman gently dried his tears with the red wool that hung limp on her circular needles.
“Sweetheart, I never really left you,” she said with a sweet smile. “Come, sit by me while I knit.”
He stood, brushing the dust from his knees. Releasing her hands he sat next to her as she slowing continued her handywork. A quick glance at his wife earned him a smile as she watched their reunion. She waited patiently while a faint frown played across her face.
“Evan,” she spoke after a quarter of an hour pasted. “Come on honey, we have to get home for dinner.”
The old woman patted him on the knee as rose from her side.
“You are a good boy Evan, it was nice to see you today,” she said.
She smiled up at his wife, her needles clicking as she continued working on the ribbing at the bottom of the tiny red sweater.
“Alzheimer’s?” she asked his wife.
His wife nodded. She was the one softly crying as they walked away.