It’s a wonderful sense of freedom. The sky is blue and the grass is green. Middle aged man and woman hold hands and are laughing.
Music man singing “New York State of Mind”, older man watching listening to a baseball game on his transistor radio, white wire with an ear piece falling from his left ear.


Across the benches is a lake big enough for rowboats to wander around.
On the hill to the left of the lake are three boys playing Frisbee as their dog plays monkey in the middle.


I find my spot beneath a tree and open my Ken Follett book. Sunbathing not ten feet from me are two young women, pretty enough to distract me from my reading.


The singer is singing, “Goodbye Yellowbrick Road” not well I might add. But the words ring true. I think about the roads I have exited from and the promises they once held. I am struck by the blues which hit me.


I had ceded to the call of escape, I had ceded to the call of false optimism, the internal sins we commit seem to haunt us in ways we cannot calculate. We cannot atone, confess or sacrifice to gain absolution.


We will pay each moment we breathe with unfiltered remorse. God can forgive us our sins, people can forgive us, but to ourselves we are unwavering.

The two women look up and they smile. I smile back and go back to my book.

The singer is singing, “No Surrender” and I laugh. When we are young we are so brash and naive. We truly believe we can be better, do better and succeed where our parents have failed.

It’s a wonderful sense of lightness, freedom like a bird soaring. Music man packing it up, old man shuts his radio in anger, the couples are further on down the road, out of focus, out of sight. The three boys are sitting next to the dog who is sleeping. The two women stand and walk away holding hands. I look down on my book and realize I haven’t read a word.


The cool evening air, the doused charcoal and the scent from the lake create an aroma made especially for late August in New York City.
I stand up, pat my pants and check my phone. Nothing new, and most times that is good.


I see a message from my lady and I text her that I’ll meet her at our Italian restaurant off of Houston street.
Another weekend, another week ahead. My eyes betray me as I walk away. Searching for that old yellow brick road.