He negotiates the orphaned parking lot in casual, oblivious strides. It just rained that afternoon and the mood is somehow mild — flanked by gloom and temperance. A faint howl of diminishing wind echoes across skyscrapers and dampness brushes his cheeks. He is neither cold nor warm, he is sure of it, which is both a surprise and vaguely familiar. That kind of sensation. The grass still shivers from the downpour and he notices the gleam of ecstasy from every blade. They seem to fluctuate in elated sways — perhaps in celebration of deliverance from the curious rage of sweltering summer. He notices things like that. No matter how unmindful he appears, casually walking in an abandoned parking lot, he never fails to notice. There were puddles. Seven, to be exact. He counts puddles as a matter of habit. There is no significant reason or neuroses to justify, he just counts puddles because there seems to be a perverted jot into this bizarre habit. He dares not disturb any of these miniature lakes — for he is gripped with alternating waves of awe, wonder and respect for nature’s ability to reinvent itself: puddles are miniature lagoons — a miracle, really — that chose to build a provisional home in a fragment of space and transience of time. This, he understands. He is then gushed with indulgence and a smile races across his mind. Moreover, he knows that puddles are celestial mirrors. They contain secrets revealed in a flash, soon to be soaked into secrecy by the hunger of loam and sand. So he is grateful to notice these common marvels. For these puddles make him remember those eyes. Little ponds he can drown in.
May 25, 2009