From My Park Bench

Today I write from a park bench. But not just any park bench, you see, this park has no grass. Instead, there are palm trees and strategically shaped bushes surrounding graffiti covered lamp posts. They are flickering now, just turning on as the sun makes its descent behind the mountains. There is a struggle between the fresh scent of the cool mountain breeze and the stench that the last pooch left behind. I, too, find myself in conflict. With the rising moon comes falling temperatures. Do I put on my cardigan or simply let the chill of the evening come over me as I sit back and take it all in? I look around. Two elderly men with snow white hair and walking canes are enjoying the evening breeze as well. I imagine they are discussing the news or the latest fútbol match when one brings up a memory from the good ol’ days. Their laughter turns into coughing which reveals lungs victim to 60 years of cigarettes. Another man stops by the park for a brief moment. Only instead of a polyester suit and pocket watch like my elderly gentlemen, this man has donned a spandex outfit comprised of short shorts and a yellow shirt that looks as if 100 sponsors have all word-vomited on it. He can only stay in my side of the park long enough for his black lab to get a swig from the doggie fountain and take care of some business. The run continues. I also share the park with some younger folks. They’ve been here awhile. Her legs draped over his, their eyes lost in each others. She runs her fingers through his hair, he kisses her forehead. They laugh together, hoping the moment never finds an end. A couple skateboarders coast by as I hear, “Oh rubia, ¡qué quapa!” paired with smooching sounds. I stick out here like a sore thumb with my blond hair. Haven’t quite decided whether or not I am going to miss that kind of attention when I get back to the States… A scooter speeds by and breaks my concentration. I want to put down my pen and paper, sprawl out across my park bench, using my balled-up sweater as a pillow, close my eyes and let my remaining senses go to work. But my mama has warned me time and again that the idiotas of the city will try to steal my purse and throw it in the river. So, for now I sit, purse strapped around my shoulder. My back begins to slouch as the wooden slats of my park bench lose any comfort they once boasted. It is growing darker and my eyes turn to the dirt beneath my feet. The ground is covered in fallen leaves and cigarette butts which are conveniently the same color. I hear the sound of the leaves crunching with every step of the passerbys. I know fall is here. I again fight the urge to let the lullabies of the city sounds sing me to sleep. I smile as I realize that I don’t have any pressing commitments or deadlines. My only duty is to occupy my park bench and enjoy life. Then a stretch of my limbs is paired with a prolonged yawn.

A girl could get used to this…