Sunday, June 05, 2005

Cold Spring

Written April 23, 1998 Boston is chilly today. A dark overcast hangs low over the city. Some less hardy souls have re-established their relationship to their topcoats, but I, having shucked the things of winter, refuse to backslide. Let it flurry, let it blizzard. I am in shirtsleeves until October. My double espresso firmly in hand, I stroll into the Common. The corner at Tremont and Park Streets is busy with vendors setting up their stands, leafletters replacing the litter still being picked up by the groundskeepers, and petitioners carrying clipboards like bucklers into their political holy wars. The pale green of freshly opened leaves flutter against the sky, the contrast is a natural op-art effect achingly bright against the retina. People bustle by rushing to work. I'm in no hurry. I sit on a bench to drink my coffee. Squirrels dash across the grass between trees and across the paths between pedestrians. The pigeons look depressed. They know the cold weather means less crumbs for them this morning. Nobody stops to sit, except me. I toss the empty paper cup in a trashcan, and stroll toward the Public Gardens. A film crew is setting up lights on the knoll. Charles Street is empty so I cross against the light and wait for three bicyclists to exit through the narrow gate with its sign enjoining visitors from using bicycles and roller skates within. Each cherry tree seems to march to a different drummer this year. The large tree just inside the gate has bloomed and gone by, a smaller one nearby has lost half of its blossoms, but the tree across the lagoon is glowing pink against the granite sky. The lagoon has been drained cleaned and refilled for Spring. The dock is empty, the Swan Boats still in storage. Around a turn in the path there is a park bench which faces away from me. It is packed end to end with small bodies, short legs gaily swinging under the bench. The gray hair above bright quilted jackets tells me that it's the Chinese grandmothers, five old ladies who sit in the park every morning talking and laughing at passers-by. I run the gauntlet of their comments, wishing once again that I knew Chinese. (What is it about me that they find so freshly amusing every morning?) The automatic sprinklers are on in the daffodil beds. A golden retriever stops and sticks his head into the spray. Some green fluorescent silly string clings to the base of the statue of Sumner implying some strange late night hilarity was had by someone. I cross Arlington Street, then Boylston, stroll another block, put on my work face and open the door.

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