Fruit of a tree (at a local park)
A man of possibly Pakistani descent. A boy really, somewhere in his low twenties. Tall, dark, tracksuited, serious. He’s on the phone, relaying his membership number to someone, somewhere. He starts with the first two numbers, pauses to ensure comprehension on the other end, continues two at a time.
A mother and her children, flying a kite with an absurd face constructed of pink crate paper. Bright and ugly, and magnificent. And it flies! Harness the wind, harness the world. Relief for the mother, joy for the children, even when it falls.
An old lady, steps as steady as navy. She wears tan and currant, dressed wonderfully warm against the Autumn air. Another old lady, wearing sunflower yellow. Her cardigan drapes her forearms, to a typical stroller. They greet in passing, friends unacquainted, and follow opposing sides of the same pavement loop. Separate paths to an end.
The one in tan-currant stops and speaks to me, too, unaware of her new life on my paper. She praises the sun, and I praise the wind. We both praise autumn. She smiles at my gratefulness and walks on in knowing.
Fruit of a tree; sitting in the sun, counting our blessings.