It’s a Sunday morning and the lazies are still sleeping, collectively tucked into their beds, awaiting hangovers and grease-laden brunches. The main drag is quiet, save for the sound of footsteps and the rustling of plastic bags crunching around the weight of purchases. A woman walks towards me, a kitten tucked in close to her generously proportioned chest as though it were a baby and not a new pet. It steadies itself with outstretched paws, its eyes wide, staring up at trees it instinctively wants to climb.
I walk the park, the breeze finding its way through my coat. My shoes hit the pavement and I wonder if I should get them shined; they are covered with tequila and footprints – evidence of the last three weeks. Above one of many brick buildings, a flurry of pigeons catch a swell of air, riding it like an ocean current, beautiful and synchronized, suspended in air until they find grounding in a telephone wire.
I pass a family on a sidewalk in dire need of repair, their little boy sitting in a stroller, crying, “It’s too late. It’s too late. It’s too late,” like the broken voice of some hidden apocalypse. He wipes tears away from his eyes, towards his ears, while his father placates him with “It’s okays” and one “It’s not so tragic.”
Down the road, the stillness of morning is even more apparent; I listen to skateboard wheels on pavement and the jingling of dog collars. I love this, this lack of everything. The quiet. The peace.
Photo courtesy of Melissa Cantanese http://www.mcantanese.com