I walked by the playground. The little kids- reminiscent of little versions of me- were bundled in puffy parkas, scarves, gloves and hats tied under their chins so tight that their chubby cheeks poured over the bow. They can barely lift their arms. They stumble and wobble, rolling around the playground, up the pyramids and down the slides. The crisp air of a warm winter engulfs them as they think about their new friends, and how they enjoy playing tag on the playground. The kids, they’ve been there forever it seems.
Couples walk dogs. Women with curly black hair frizzing out of wrapped striped scarves, with glasses, with wrinkles. Men walking slowly behind, undistinguished, unremarkable, but peaceful nonetheless. The grey of the city pours into the park, a timeless grey filling corners that are easy to mistake as empty. Filling the cracks in the old cement all along the paths between playgrounds. Buildings stand right on the edge reminding you of where you are. Marking the minutes left you have in a playland. Soon you’ll hit the bustling streets where coats, scarves, mittens, socks mix with people walking so fast down the sidewalk in a cocktail of cold, pain, business and ambition. Sometimes cheeks flush as new lovers hold hands. Children laugh and tickle one another. But more often than not, everyone drinks the cocktail and keeps going- destinations unknown but going nonetheless.
When you’re alone you drink the cocktail, and think that you’re the only one. It makes you tell yourself to keep going, that you’ll go far. You pick some imaginary destination and push yourself towards it with all your might. Just like parents push the little bundles of pink and blue sitting on the swings at the playground.
Someday, maybe you’ll bump into someone- who will help you remember that you aren’t the only one. You aren’t the only one drinking the cocktail. And you’ll feel like maybe you can walk together, bundled now not only in your coats, but in each other. In the warmth of someone else, and the softness of their embrace.
But all too soon, one of you will trip- holding each other – one person holding on too tight, or another tripping over shoes. It’s inevitable.
There’s a bench. A bench at the intersection of three paths, one that is incredibly hard to revisit, but one that doesn’t move. It’s hard to find- at that intersection. It’s under a bridge, behind a museum, covered in shrubbery, and overcome by passersby. Under the bridge there’s a man who plays his flute. It echoes though, offering a trail of crumbs to find this place.
