It was a beautiful spring day in New York; much-needed balm, as I was deeply weary and full of dark thoughts.
I went for a long walk in Prospect Park, where the sun was shining in a clear blue sky, the air was fragrantly astir, and the daffodils were blooming. I saw thousands of smiling happy people – gamboling and frolicking in the Long Meadow, thumping away at Drummer’s Grove, playing at the ballfields, pedaling their bikes, sitting on the benches, tossing footballs, pushing strollers, and sleeping on the grass. There were Jamaicans playing cricket, and Russians playing chess. I saw Muslim women in hijab, Lubavitchers in long black pants, and sunbathers in bikinis. Two middle-aged white guys were playing Gypsy guitar music, very well indeed, while a few feet away attractive young woman was telling the equally attractive young man she was playing Frisbee with that she was sorry she didn’t speak German so that they could understand one another better. She said she felt badly about it, but the only languages she spoke were French, Spanish, English, Italian, Arabic, and a little Farsi.
And there were children everywhere, in all sizes, shapes, and colors – in strollers, on foot, slung upon their daddy’s shoulders fast asleep, laughing and shouting and crying, and eating ice creams, and nursing at their mother’s breasts, and drinking at the fountains, and flying kites, and running around and falling down and getting right back up.
And all the time the Sun was shining on down, same as always. And tomorrow it’s supposed to rain, same as always.
I feel much better now.
