the sunset sandwich

for lauren...

This morning I watched a small flock of pigeons devour a piece of bread. Each took a turn at pecking the bread into smaller, more manageable bites. There was beauty in the madness as each pigeon waited as its brethren took his or her turn. They worked quickly yet efficiently with the piece of bread as if another flock of pigeons were arriving soon. Before long that piece of bread became crumbs scattered on the concrete. The flock disbanded and took flight into the city air.
In the quiet hours of morning, I find the courage to think about the things that kept me up the night before. The cool air begins to flush with warmth and I know my afternoon is soon. How will today be different from tomorrow?
At mid day I overheard a child begging her mother to “tie the string tighter mommy.” I turned and saw a small child in a white summer dress with her arm outstretched to her mother who was kneeling down while tying one end of a string to the tiny wrist of her tiny daughter. The other end of the string was tied to a large pink balloon and it was gently moving in the air like a kite. While deciding what a beautiful little girl could have achieved to have deserved such a wonderful present, her mother stood up and claimed, “there, that should do it.” The child smiled at her mother as if to thank her. Then she softly touched the knot as if to double check her mother’s work. The pair took a few steps down the road and the pink balloon followed them. Yet then without warning the balloon began to wave wildly in the air and suddenly broke free from the child’s wrist and climbed into the sky. Up, up, up it went. The little girl, with her little arm pointing up to the sky, turned to her mother and asked “what does ‘that should do it mean’?
A look from a stranger from the safety of his car. A cyclist rides past me and smiles. A dove sits on a tree branch and sings me a song. Faces that I have never seen and may never see again are all around. All these lives, everywhere. The sound of traffic, then the sound of stillness. I steal a moment and wonder what she is doing now.
Much of the day is behind me. I am sitting on a park bench with every intention of finishing a book I have yet to finish. With the book in my hands, I find the page where I left off and begin again. The words enter my mind and the story unfolds…again. The shape of my head gently sweeps over the book and darkens the pages. The sun is lower in the sky and the light is ending.
I pass a man who is crying. He is leaning against a beautiful white brick house. Hanging his head and hiding his face, he knows I am there. Our eyes meet and I see the pain in his face. Something terrible has happened. Although we are strangers I am familiar with his sorrow. Yet unaware of what troubles him. Lifting his chin to the setting sun, he wipes his eyes and then closes them. Tightly. As if to wish this day would end. A woman appears from behind and gently touches the man on the shoulder. He does not move. A whisper slips from her mouth to him and his eyes open. He stands and walks with the woman inside. It was then that I noticed the small plaque which adorned the building. It read “Cedar Hospice. Est. 1895”
Beyond the tree clearing I can see the remainder of the day. It waits in the air, between the pink and the orange. It reflects off the steel and the glass of the city. It reflects off of me and off of you. It promises me tomorrow and then leaves me the same tonight.