Fast away the old year passes

I sat down on the bench in South Park. It was the one along the sidewalk. But what did it matter. Which bench? Which park? Which dreary year?

The winter solstice had finally passed by the day before, but today was just as gray as a day could be. The ground in front of me was visibly soggy from the remains of a few inches of snow that had fallen last weekend.

The temperatures had then dropped below zero and when I had walked to the river bundled up in layer upon layer of layers. The tips of my mittened fingers still had gotten cold. But for reasons a man would have to make up, I had wanted to witness the hard cold from the levee.

The gulls were crying out in the cold. More gulls than I usually saw, wheeling below Bowersock Dam. Gulls and more gulls. White-winged. Crying. Even through my thick wool cap pulled down over my ears, I could hear them crying. Not bitter - the cold I am now speaking of - but biting. And not so stone cold, only nipping at my nose. Truly, it was not cold enough for tears. But then there was no wind that early winter morning. Some frost on my mustache. The low sun in my eyes.

And then I wondered if it might not have been the hard cold I had come for after all. Perhaps it had been the unexpected gulls that I had come to see – and hear. And then – just then, for a moment - I thought that I understood. The gulls were speaking nearly all at once, each one turning into the sunlight, circling around, and turning again.

And then, I knew not. I realized simply that I must be mistaken. I have heard humans crying at times and I know, now, that I don’t understand. Sometimes I think I catch a glimmer. Sometimes I feel it.

That morning the gulls were crying in the cold. A hard cold. Perhaps they don’t understand ‘why’ any more than I do. I just walked away.

I stopped after several more blocks along Mass Street for a bowl of tomato soup, spicy hot. The baristas were circling the kitchen, turning into the sunlight at the register, nearly vanishing in the glare, then turning again. I could see that they were saying something to each other, but I could not understand. I nearly cried.

I must have still held onto some feeling from somewhere. Somewhen. One I had never meant to let go, but I couldn’t say what it was.

And then that day became another day and then another day - turning, circling – walking into the sunlight and eventually turning into a gray day.

I sat down on a bench in South Park. It was the one along the sidewalk. I saw a young woman approaching me, her hair shiny black spilling out from under a Santa hat onto the shoulders of a black coat. But I was mostly staring outward through the trees in front of me, unlit light bulbs stringing around bare branches. I could not have given attention to every detail of that woman approaching, but I recall clearly now that she seemed not to be walking particularly fast. She might have been taking time.

The winter solstice had passed the day before, but today was as gray as a day could be. The ground in front of me was visibly soggy from the remains of a few inches of snow that had fallen last weekend. A damp cold.

I suppose that could not have missed her red and white hat, pom-pom tipped to one side.

And then she passed on the sidewalk in front of me, right there where I sat on my bench in the gray afternoon and I inexplicably opened my mouth and spoke out to her, ‘how long must I wait here for spring?’ And she turned and smiled into my eyes, her mouth suddenly filled with silver braces.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ she laughed.

I turned my head and watched her walk, still slowly, away from me down the sidewalk, the Santa hat perched on her shiny black hair.

The winter solstice had only just passed the day before, but today was possibly as bright as a day could be.