Walk in the Park

Contributed by Cynthia Lugo on 13/04/09

“It doesn’t really feel like a hike in the woods when we’re following a paved path.”

“Okay then, we’re not hiking in the woods. We’re taking a walk in the park. There. Presto. All better now?”

“Hmph. I s’pose.”

“Grouchy girl is grouchy today.”

“And it makes it all so much better, all that pointing out how grouchy I am you keep doing over there.”

“You might be less grouchy if you’d let me carry that picnic basket a bit.”

“Oh do please take the picnic basket. Look! The sun came out! And did I just hear a choir of angels? ‘All will be well and all will be well and all manner of things will be well.’”

“It will, you know. Be well.”

“Let’s take this path, this paved road. Look, there’s something written on it.”

“Trying to change the subject, are we now?”

“What subject? What is the subject, exactly? And anyway, maybe I’m just trying to change my mood, have a good time, you know?”

I smile at him and try to put the smile in my eyes so it looks real, but the sun is bright and I don’t know if it works. He shifts the picnic basket from one hand to the other.

“But we are in agreement, right? We’re doing what we want, right?”

I clap my hands over my ears. “La la la I can’t HEAR you! Pointout Path. This is the path that leads to the point. Out. Whatever that is.”

He’s a bright boy. He gets it.

“I don’t remember any sort of pointing from when I was here before, much less any out. Maybe it’s, I don’t know, code?”

“Or maybe it’s just a sign, you know, for the tourists. It’s just pointing out that there’s a path. In case we couldn’t see it. All paved and everything.”

“I was thinking something a little more interesting – I mean mysterious. You know, messages from the gods or something?”

“Maybe. Hmm. Oh! Wait a sec. Let me get a pencil. Sit down a minute.”

I plop down right there on the path. No one else is around anyway. He always carries paper and pen. I can count on him for that. We park ourselves along the path and start scribbling.

“Punt potato hi? Well that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Put top hat in…o. Shit.”

I’m better at this.

“Pint up a tooth! Ew.”

“I put hat on top!”

“Nice! But it’s not exactly…I don’t know. Prescriptive enough? Check this: ‘Oh, tiptop tuna!’”

We’re both giggling now and I am glad. We’ve got nothing before us but this game. No appointment looming. Nothing between us but our love for each other.

“Also non-prescriptive. These messengers from outer space kind of suck at their secret message-leaving. I mean, they DO want us to figure it out, right? Paint thou top! Prescriptive, yet nonsensical.”

“Or thou paint top? But you’re right, I think. It should make a little more sense than that.”

“Here we go. Here we go. It’s not telling us what to do, it’s telling us what we’ll find if we follow the path: Not taut hippo.”

“A hippo! Let’s go find the hippo.”

I stand and dust off the seat of my pants while he stows pen and paper and takes up our picnic basket.

“You know, just because it’s the right thing to do doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.”

“I know.”

He shifts the basket to the far side and reaches for my hand. I tuck mine into his and curl my thumb around his index finger, finding comfort in the tight tough strength of his skin.