Seeing the city differently

Once my son started walking I started spending a lot of time in parks. I became acquainted with the enormous poplars, the shady lindens, the preening catalpas. I learnt to observe the sky, to watch the clouds scuttle across high blue, to know the signs of rain. With the changing of seasons, I learnt which trees shed their leaves first, which last, and which went out in a blaze of glory. I learnt that dead ginko leaves, despite being a radiant yellow, smell rotten.

I know when the ducks fly south and when the swings are taken in for the winter. I know where the squirrels and petancle players hang out. In fact, I know which parks have animal life and which ones are barren and quiet except for the overhead drone of distant planes.

I have learnt, sometimes the hard way, which sidewalks are clean and which are covered in old garbage, soiled diapers and glass. I know that where there are seagulls there is also soggy bread and bird poop.

Today, my son reminded me that climbing on bleachers is a joyous past-time. He also discoverd the primeval pleasure of crushing ice puddles. He stepped, gingerly at first, on the ice crusts and then stomped gleefully at the crunching of ice below his feet. When he got tired, I pushed him in the stroller and made special detours towards the ice. I, too, wanted the thrill of destroyed ice plates under my boots.