minutesofhoney

Miracles, Milwaukee

In Life, Milwaukee on May 22, 2012 at 7:15 pm

There are so many miracles.  Today in a park, on a bench.  The sun dapples leaves glistening above deep water.  A man rides a bike.  A hard-backed bug rushes along a path.

I have walked my long hair and apple to read the book I cradle to my chest in this park, this afternoon, this spring.  I read the book, brushing ants off my dress.  In the alcove overlooking the river, I am shaded by trees and I watch trees.

This is the park I dunk-tanked in, in the summer, holding hands with my best friend on toothpick legs like all girls have, weaving in and out of barbeque crowds.

This is the park my mother and I sang opera in, down the long metal tube leading from lot to green as we walked the body of a car-torn rabbit to rest on a wooded hill.

This is the park where, today, I lay my book down and listen to a wedding party.  And peek my head beyond the alcove to watch a photographer watch a laughing man and woman beyond a lens.  This is where the air holds birds above water and the sounds of a piano and the color white, from chairs in rows.  This is the park holding George Harrison’s voice as I can’t see her but I know she’s coming down the aisle and he’s right and the crowd’s coos rise and here comes the sun.

This is the park I am crying in, so relieved to know that it is true. I walk back to that long metal tube, and old Russian couples dot benches above two people staring at each other and smiling, and love is true and all is right with the world.

Series 2

I drive down a main street.  A crowd of middle aged people flock before some kind of something hidden to my passenger window behind a copse of brush decorating the edge of a stretch of sidewalk.  They are a miniature paparazzi, this cluster of smiling mouths crouched below camera eyes.

I’m a split-second of sight scrolling by on wheels.  And, ah, I see.  A kindergarten graduation party… arrayed on small steps, signs in small hands and paper crowns and smiles so strong they’re lion tearing little faces.  There is that little boy almost biting the air, so fierce his joy.

And all is right with the world.

Series 3

We buy pears.  We walk to the car.

We eat pears, dancing in the car to the Rolling Stones.

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