Not the duck pond in through the looking glass.

Today we walked to the duck pond but there were no ducks. The pond was half-drained, its pipes exposed, muck seeped and settled into the seating areas, inexplicably overrun with squirrels. Some sort of maintenance issue, I suspect.

So I turned around, back toward our house. I picked a side street because I’ve grown weary of shuffling along the main thoroughfares. I stopped next to a large patch of grass and let my son run around for awhile. Nearly everyone walking along the diagonal path that cut through the grass greeted us warmly, happy to see a little spirit frolicking in the sunshine.

I put him back in his stroller and picked another side street, this one through the heart of the sleepy public housing project. When the street came to an end I continued on straight through a walking path marked with bollards and discovered a new-to-me park, with covered picnic tables and hopscotch and four-square courts painted into the sidewalk and a community garden and benches along a meandering path and a proud mural with the park’s name emblazoned in the middle, all ensconced by a low brick wall.

I’ve lived within a half mile of this park for six years and have walked past its main entrance hundreds of times, but just discovered its existence today. And even though it’s empty now, I could feel its community in the walls, how it grows and nurtures and fills this space.

I remember what it was like to be young, to wander, to open my eyes to simple spaces and their human impact. It’s what made me fall in love with cities, the sheer magnitude and variety of these small discoveries.

My city is closed, my life is on pause. But somehow today I feel young again, intoxicated by the obscured little corners that make this place a home.

Last updated April 28, 2020