Strangers in the Park- A Reflection

The statues stand, facing one another; their lips pursed in a permanent kiss, spitting water into one another’s faces. A bird lands on the grass, hesitates, and flies away. In the distance, lost behind a row of trees bordering the park, a car horn honks at a passing pedestrian. A child screams. A woman laughs. The sun is replaced by a wall of clouds, each more threatening than the last. Two girls sit on a bench, sipping coffee in hushed conversation; their legs crossed, their skirts inching higher. They cast flirtatious glances and half-hearted smiles at a group of shirtless boys, who toss a frisbee with limp-wristed, distracted abandon. Pulsating emotions pour out of a piece of stretching graffiti in a distant alleyway. The statues are forever spitting.

An older man, his weathered hands crushing the filter of a cigarette against the polished wood of a walking cane, leans against the railing of a walking path. He blows smoke from his nostrils as he surveys the energy of the youth. Disheartened, he lets the cigarette fall to the sidewalk. It lays there, smoking, until a jogger’s foot ends its life. Moments later, a homeless woman walks past and picks it up. She adds the flattened butt to a collection, which she keeps in an empty packet. The cellophane crinkles. She is gone.

I sit against a piece of abstract art, which could either be a swan or a ship; the image changing with each new perspective. I realize now, as I struggle to categorize my thoughts for another horror story, that I am much the same. This past year has changed me, and the things that I once found to be dire are now trivial. Limitations I once had were only stepping stones, and I’m sure that I’ll feel the same way about the things that scare me now. Before, I was afraid to look in the mirror; now, I cherish the time that I have to reflect. I see myself in strangers. I am learning to love them.

A man sits down on a bench opposite mine and pulls a warm can of beer out of his jacket pocket. His hands are trembling. He presses the can to his lips and throws his head back.

He does this five times.

I counted.

He belches, and the empty can slips from his fingers. I watch as it rattles down the sidewalk, caught in the gentle wind that so characterizes the English landscape. When I look back up, the man is gone. I see him disappear around a bend. He smiles back at me and I notice, or at least I think I do, that his shakiness is gone.

There, but for the grace of God, go I.

I make a mental note to give a one-pound coin to the next homeless man that I see; purchasing good karma for bad times, should I find myself so unfortunate.

A pretty girl sits down on the bench and retrieves her lunch from a large handbag. She seems put-off by my cigarette, but I catch her glancing in my direction a few times as she eats. I smile at her. She smiles back. For one reason or another, I’ve never felt worthy of affection; and besides, she seems to be enjoying whatever song is humming through her headphones. Her shoe bounces to the music, and so I say nothing. She tucks the empty Tupperware container back into her bag and tucks her hair behind her ear. She smiles one more time before walking away, and I drop the cigarette into my empty coffee cup. It fizzles. I smile. The clouds open up, and the sun reflects off the white of the page. A series of potted flowers comes to life with vibrant shades of red and green.

A bird sings and flutters out of a tree and I wonder if it knows the one that hesitated and if, maybe, it hesitated once, too.

It cocks its head to face me. It looks proud. Defiant. It walks across the grass with confidence, and then flies out over the river.

I start a new page, and I find its untarnished slate intimidating. I’ve been doing this for over a decade, either for release or compensation; yet, every new beginning draws knots into my stomach. I fear every new chapter, though there is a tinge of hopeful anticipation. I think back on the first piece I really shared- a poem I wrote after my grandfather’s death. It was filled with awkward lines and mismatched stanzas. I had struggled to cope. I knew, even then, that these pages I fill would become an outlet for the words I’ve never been able to find in the moment. They give me a voice, by sitting without one between the lines. I fill in the margins with details I’ve missed. I live in the margins, not on them.

I try my hardest to jot down every emotion, but I’m not a painter.

Sometimes I miss the bigger picture.

So I’ve given up on a horror story for this week, as my trip to England has brought things up which I can’t force into a genre. I just wanted you to know that I’m alive; and while I’m not well, I’m getting there. I’m finding my roots in the country that birthed me, and finding myself in the faces of strangers.

I’m learning to love them.

The statues haven’t moved.

Glancing up, I see a large bird bring a worm to a smaller one.

And I wonder.