Image from the portfolio of Deborah Hamon.
Asher goes to the park.
Asher followed the dirt road mechanically to its end and stepped on snow burdened grass, its tips drooping against his legs, on a path along the old man's property. He passed the boarded-up house, the frozen garden and rotting wheel barrel, and soon reached the partition of lawn and woods marked by unkempt shrubbery. There was an uprooted rhododendron as an opening. He ducked under branches and around familiar large rocks, and after a few lazy minutes of careful footing, found the expanse. Uniform white snow and a noontide reflection caused his eyes to wince.
Nobody was at the park. At its opposite end a few disinterested cars were passing along in commute, two or three at a time, with the pace usually set by a tense driver pressed to the wheel. Conditions were slippery. In the east was a shallow hill, not daring enough for sledding children to take seriously, and unlike the nearby, wide-open farms, or the lake that had long frozen over, a snowmobile would find little sport here. In the west, a set of swings swayed with the wind. He moved toward the basketball court, untouched and unused since the fall, which lay immediately south.
Signs of other visitors were timid. Footsteps stayed close to where Asher had entered. They were left sometime after the morning storm and didn't extend more than a few yards past the opening, and the smaller imprints, multiplied by four, never broke the orbit of a leash.
An outhouse.
It was something below zero. In the colder months Asher payed little attention to the temperature-numbers. It was either windy or not windy, and today it was windy. Curves of air stenciled themselves in white dust and played along the park's surface. He pulled his hat down to cover the whole of his ears.
A tattered brown leaf skipped along and caught his attention. A blight on the blanket, the memory of fall. With two hands he cupped it, filtered out the snow, and placed it into his coat pocket. He looked around for others. No more treasures. He continued to the basketball pole where he slid down into a crouch, his back against the sticky metal, and pulled his legs close to his body. The tips of his gloves were tugged to bring his fingers towards his palm and into a light fist. He kept his hands near his heart. To satisfy his toes, he wiggled them in scales from big to small.
Another car drove past.
If you'd meet me for just ten minutes, if you'd just listen.
He stopped himself.
Home, come home, I love you.
But the universe would not bend, so he stopped himself.
Magic words, like in childhood, were missing, when he'd whisper "wind" and swore the trees swayed on his behalf. Fantasies were now of arguments, or of chance encounters, perhaps by intersecting his former lover on his way to school; or maybe as a forced juncture, something dramatic, even a throw of fists, where climax and resolution would finally come and there'd be no turning back.
He stood and looked upward. The snow on the platform appeared as an obstacle but clearing it wouldn't be difficult. It was powder. With a tiny leap he began to climb the pole, his legs and arms wrapped around the black metal shaft, propelling like a caterpillar, stretching and folding, until he was anchored high enough to grab the hoop's arm. It took him several tries, but the snow was eventually dusted off and he positioned himself upon the platform.
The view wasn't much altered by his new vantage point but the feeling of isolation was heightened. He rested his head against the backboard. Despite the cold, he wasn't uncomfortable. His huddle resumed.
Overhead a plane was heard descending toward the airport two miles away. Cars still trickled past. They continued into monotony until fading into disregard.
The frozen brown leaf was taken out of his pocket and examined. The nearest deciduous trees were a half football field away and none of them carried leaves. It was February and there had been too many storms. Perhaps this leaf had found temporary shelter on its way from the branch and never quite made it to the ground, was never buried by snow like the others. Or a dog may have uncovered it with its nose, or more likely, while kicking about its mess.
He collected what he could of the deteriorating leaf and swept it from his hand. The wind, which had died down since his arrival, seemed to stop completely the moment the leaf was released. It dropped directly to the ground.
Asher collected snow from the bottom of his boot and threw it at the leaf. He missed.
I should go.
