Miracle fair

In a move to greedily celebrate the newfound splendors of spring, my friends and I took their kids to the park this afternoon. It’s a large stretch of land, equipped with swings and slides and wrapped around by a golf course. Within the park there is a small wood, its trees still bare and sparse, and a bike path which, if you walk down it a little, brings you to a bridge running over a stream plump with winter’s melted water. The kids, for so long cooped up inside the house, love the place. They run and bike and fall and scatter, abandoning themselves to the forgotten pleasures of having a space big enough to contain their energy.

I walk over to a bench and sit down to read. It is late afternoon and the sun is slowly dipping into the horizon. All winter I have imagined a scene like this, the sheer luxury of going to the park and reading, but the book I brought with me lies unopened by my side. I just sit and admire the weather. Not quite used to spring, or perhaps not having the words to describe it, I can’t explain exactly how beautiful it is. It is enough just to be sitting here, watching the children scooch down the long chutes of the slides as their mother stands on the other side, waiting lavishly with nectarines. After winter’s constrictions, the utter beauty of spring has taken me by surprise, disabling all need for the talk and elaboration that animated/imitated life in the previous weather. Now, it is enough just to sit here and watch the swings as they travel to and fro between the sky.