course pinch of salt
It wasn’t the first time he had seen it. It was the second or the third, or the fourth. It was the first time he could actually spend time by himself with it. Sure there would be other people around. Sure, there were other people around. But what did it matter. In the throngs of humanity, you stood and died alone. None of this family nonsense. He had seen it a week ago. They had brought him here, then taken him back to where he had began. Three or four, he hadn’t been sure. Buses of people just like him. Brought him here, shown this, and a few other things to them. Then taken them back to where they had began. So he had had to come back. On his own. No, that wasn’t how it went. Had he had to go to his aunts? In Denver. Regardless, he was here now. Memory was hazy after seven years. Recollection turned into the gray fog of malleability. And he had been there, seven years ago. That is the now. Time is imperfect. Confused? Sorry.
He was here now. He could spend time by himself. The sun sparkled hung high in the sky. The clouds hung low and breezy. Fluffy, puffy. Weightless. Sprays of water on his face. The sounds of merriment. Skateboards clanging against the gravel. The statue of garibaldi, standing magnificent and proud. The acrobats on another entrance contorting their body into twirling fantastic shapes. A pianist blocking one entrance, tunes that you could almost see in the air as notes, beautiful, haunting, poetic. Dogs chasing one another, tails out, in the park. Chess players on one corner. Their unwitting victims walking around, conspicuous, oblivious. He was one such. But soon, he would not be. This place would become his home. He would see it from his window on the fifteenth floor. Chess players on one corner, the men stumbling around that would slowly turn into dealers as the sun moved towards the horizon. Then fast talking, bright eyed people. “You want some- I got the finest- you want some? Only- it’s the best.” And so on and so forth. The arch, standing tall and proud and white. Lights that would glow underneath it as day turned into dark, making the comforting motherly monument seem haunting and dark as the shadows danced, enlarged. He would walk under it many times. The myth he would dispel. But for those who believed in it, no one could disprove it.
The sun shone high and bright. The light was encompassing, like a blanket spreading everywhere. A few ridges untouched of shadow or canopy of trees under which the the light did not touch. The contrast was beautiful. Poetic even. The smell of cotton candy and ice cream and the taste of the sprays of water. He dipped his toes into the water. Cool. He sighed. He leaned back against the fountain and flipped open his book to the page he was at. He began reading.
Washington square park, 2013