Walking in the Park

Amidst the rustle of autumn leaves and a coyote's cry, fingers interlaced, we listen to our breath, the wind.  Both linger in the space between us, sifting through a tiresome cloud of flies.

As we walk along the river, I tell about my day.

I remember I saw a man waving and smiling at the traffic from a street-corner on my morning commute.  I wanted to cry, the way his smile was so wide, and how people weren't waving back.  It made me think of God.  I could see him doing that sort of thing were he here and shaped like a person--wanting to make people smile on their way to work on a frosty September morning.

I say I miss my students--the ones I used to teach, but don't teach anymore because we're moving away.  If only I could be there, leaning over their shoulders during class, whispering, and reminding them to love the words.  To love reading them, writing them, bouncing them around in their heads.

When a boy walks by us with a long stick, I remember playing softball as a child.  Short-stop.  I loved my spot between second and third, a territory all my own.  Leaning forward with my gloved hand raised, I would shift my weight from left foot to right foot and back, waiting to crush someone's homerun dream.  It seems like a long time ago, now.

When I finish talking, and decide to be quiet, it's dusk.  My toes are tingling and the light is such that the earth blends into the sky.  So, after stopping to watch a man run to the top of a big hill, we smile at each other and drive back home.

Image "Autumn Evening" by Richard Wade (www.richardwade-art.com)