An Ordinary Day at the Park

I was formerly and am presently enjoying this beautiful day.

The wood beneath me is smoothed by years of weather and by other people who were also sitting on this bench and enjoying the same view that I was enjoying before. I’m overlooking a lake that is called a lake but should honestly be called a pond, but no matter. There are several ducks - mallards, I think - who are traversing the pond-lake. I see the ripples created in their wake. I see the fronds at the edge of the water that move back and forth, back and forth.

This scene is so peaceful. The gentle wind sways the treetops and causes a slight rustling that you can only hear if you really, really focus. You have to listen beyond the noises of the children and their parents, beyond the barking of the dogs, beyond the quacking of the mallards and the chirping of the other birds to truly appreciate the noises.

In the distance, there are tall skyscrapers and apartment buildings. I know that if I were there, on a bench lining the street and not a bench lining the grass, that it would be a miserable concrete jungle. There are cars that roar past and buses whose brakes squeal and the occasional sound of sirens. The city is a far distance away relative to the distance I could comfortably walk, and I’m glad it is. This park is a much better place to die.

When I took the job six months or so ago, it was on a day just like this, except it was colder and darker. I met her in a cafe near this very park, where she slid off her ring and passed a photo of him to me. (I see a child run by with a frisbee in their hands, and they throw it to their father). I slipped the photo into my pocket and reached towards her under the table, where a large stack of bills awaited my fingers. 

A cloud briefly passes over the sun, and combined with the breeze it makes me a bit chilly, despite my coat. The coat is important. It’s my favorite coat, and it’s also concealing the hole and accompanying stain on my shirt. I’ve lazily sat myself down on this bench with both arms dropped to my sides and, quite frankly, my posture is terrible. I don’t care. It’s a beautiful day.

One month ago, she missed our monthly check-in. At first, I did not worry. After all, any number of things could delay a simple message. She could have been working, or maybe she misread her calendar. I became more worried when I found a note on my car. (I watch as a hawk circles overhead). For once, I wished I’d gotten a parking ticket. The note read, in terrible handwriting:

SOON

Taped to the note was a lock of silky smooth brown hair.

There are a few things that I wished I’d done differently in this life. For one, I wish I hadn’t moved to the city. I realized too late in life that I did really appreciate the forests and the hills and the countryside and less so the traffic and the noise and the hustle and bustle of the city. I wish I’d invested my money better. I wish the bench I am sitting on was on the other side of the water so that I’d be in the shade and away from the view of the children.

The stain on my shirt is growing bigger, and with quite an effort I reach my right arm into my left breast pocket to pull out a different note. I’m familiar with what it says. I’ve read it hundreds of times. I read it again. I smile. I try to put it back in my pocket, but the effort is far too much, so I release it into the wind. I watch as it flutters away on the breeze, my arm dropping to my side once more.

Maybe a cup of coffee would keep me awake, but I don't think so. I’ve never felt this tired; my eyes have never felt so heavy. I allow them to shut, relishing in the cries from the hawk, the gentle splash as someone skips a rock across the water, the exclamation of happiness as a swing is pushed higher, higher, higher. I allow my mind to go higher, higher, higher too.