What the Park Said

Mini-dogs snarfled around gargantuan mastiffs and humans sniffed one another's asses.

Or something like that. I spent a few hours reading the paper and watching dogs wade in and out of a cordoned off portion of a lake in Prospect Park. I watched a religious Jewish father side-kick his wolf-eyed dog into the water when it didn't want to swim. I heard him yell at his 12 children with the same vehemence. And I saw 147 yamacha-clad kids push and pull said dog this way and that, in a way that recalled my own childhood desires to get Ellie or Max to do exactly what I wanted, when I wanted it. ("Look here!" "Get the stick!" "Get the STICK!")

I heard owners call, "Miffie!" "Muffie!" "Madeleine!" "Roscoe!" so many times I became deaf to the names of dogs. Except to "Shoshana." Who names their dog "Shoshana"? Apparently one incredibly nasal-voiced woman in Brooklyn does.

I saw men without shirts play rugby. I saw plastic bags tumble over a pond. I saw my arms turn slightly red with sun and the clouds wash over the sky.

I felt my eyes become heavy with calm, and the day spread outward like lava from my warm toes.