Central Park

June 19, 2011
I am the trees that line your morning walks;
I am the bench on which you read the daily newspaper;
I am the path you chase the pigeons upon;

But mostly importantly I am the edge of the fountain that gave you a place to sit when you first noticed her. Without me, you would have fell head first into the water. It’s no secret that it took every last ounce of courage for you to drift between the falling brown leaves and approach her. With one bold move, you casually sat down next to her and tried so hard to nonchalantly get a better look. I chuckled with the wind as you realized that the giant floral-printed bow she donned would make this maneuver difficult. Finally, I controlled myself and you managed to twist your head around enough to catch a glimpse of a cute, little nose before her brown hair quickly concealed it again. Another blow and my soft breeze helped you make conversation by crowning you the savior of her scrambled notes. And even by the time my light reached its peak, she was still the brightest detail of your scene.

A week later my limbs were barer, my railings were colder, and my flooring was buried under even more leaves. Yet, you still showed up with a tray of two coffees stacked on top of a copy of The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays. I roared as you silently rehearsed your lines and prayed she’d show up again. Soon clouds covered my skies and the roles switched as she appeared next to you on the bench. She smiled as you offered her the drink and asked you what you were doing here. You executed the suave performance, mentioning that you finally remembered the title of the book that she was asking about last week. After a while of amicable chatting, I poured out a little drizzle. You took her hand and ran under the closest tree. Here is where you tightly pulled her into you and kissed her gently for the first time.

As the winter developed a nasty chill, I didn’t get to see much of you except for the occasional stroll on Sunday mornings. But now spring graced us with her presence; my once-stripped branches have been redressed with much foliage, the frozen bolts of my seating have defrosted and grown colored, and my beaten-down terrace has warmed back up. Once the flowers started to bloom, you lead her back to my bench and this time she was blindfolded. Sensing the mood, I gave you a sparkling sun and a tender breeze. In front of her, you got down on one knee and asked her kindly to take off the covering. Soon her tears flowed as you promised her "forever" and she promised you "always."

Today, as usual, I am looking on. Currently, I’m shielding your guests from the harsh August sun as you exchange your vows in front of the gleaming water. I have seen your story from the start and I’ve stored all the beautiful moments deep within my roots. This account would serve as a glorious wedding present, but unfortunately, I cannot offer these words. For as much as I may be a part of your tale, I speak in a language that you do not know.





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