Generations' Song

Predetermined nouns I had to work with: (Clyde, Dani – New York – Radio, Gold, Umbrella) 

“Generations’ Song” 

    It’s evening in Central Park. It’s quiet. It’s my favorite time to be here. It always has been. A time where the busy city almost stops to catch its breath. I’m sitting on a park bench nestled between two bright yellow and red Sugar Maples. A few yellow leaves dot the asphalt and grass beneath its reaching branches. It’s so perfect here. A few people walk some of the trails, and a hot dog vender is not too far off, but still, it’s quiet. The breeze rustles through the branches above me sending a few more leaves fluttering and dancing before they rest on the ground. 

    I remain on the park bench, lost in tranquility, watching as the yellow and red drizzle continues. I watch as my breath puffs in front of me and disperses into nothingness. I listen to the breeze swishing branches and rubbing leaves together. A new sound enters my tranquility. Something quiet and far away, but beautiful. A song. Playing on an old radio. I can hear as the song scratches with interference making it all the more beautiful, taking me through generations. 

~~~ 

    A spring, years ago. The song plays in the background on a radio nearby. I’m beyond excited to start. As soon as the countdown begins, I’m shaking, jittering in my tiny boots. “4, 3, 2, 1, GO!” I shriek and giggle as my tiny legs carry me as fast as they can. I’m looking everywhere. Under benches, in leaf piles, standing on my tippy toes to see in the holes of the Sugar Maples. My basket slowly becoming heavier with the plastic eggs. Time’s almost up, I think. I run farther than all the others and make my way to the giant Oak. I search the nooks and crannies of the roots where a tiny golden egg glitters, waiting for me.  

~~~ 

    A summer, years after. The song pushes its way to my ears from a radio nearby, trudging through the humidity. It makes me remember the golden egg. My shirt sticks to me. I envy the boys I see running, they can just take their shirts off. A rumble in the clouds makes me worry. A drop of rain is validation. I make to hide under the Sugar Maples, it’s better than nothing. A boy already stands there. One of the shirtless boys. He smiles at me. A self-deprecating smile, an apology for being shirtless. I don’t mind at all. The rain is coming in faster, fatter drops. A downpour. The boy holds his shirt over his head and looks at me inviting. The boy tells me his name is Clyde. I huddle close to the boy and hold up one end of the shirt umbrella. "My name is Dani," I tell him.

~~~ 

    That winter. My breath is ice in my lungs. The song bounces across the snow from a radio far away. I think of the golden egg, I think of the shirtless boy. I’m huddled next to that boy on a bench beneath the Sugar Maples. A blanket connects us through our Parkas. We watch as a squirrel searches for a nut. Our icy breaths cloud before us in unison, dispersing as one. Minutes pass as we watch the squirrel, as we watch our breath. The boy tells me to close my eyes, to listen to the song on the radio. He nudges me and I open my eyes to a delicate golden band caressed in his fingers.  

~~~ 

    A Spring, years later. A storm threatens the easter egg hunt. Children jump and wiggle next to their parents with umbrellas. The song on the radio nearby reminds me of the golden egg, reminds me of the shirtless boy, reminds me of the golden band. “Ready, Set Go!” I yell. The children erupt into chaos and giddy screams. I turn to the boy and smile, wondering who will be changed by this golden egg.  

~~~ 

    An evening in Central Park. It’s quiet. I'm sitting beneath two yellow and red Sugar Maples. I hear the song in the distance. I remember the golden egg. I remember the boy using his shirt as an umbrella. I remember the delicate golden band. I remember the easter egg hunt, and which little girl was changed by the golden egg. I think of the shirtless boy. The boy with his little golden band. The boy standing beside me as I let the children go to find the eggs. A tear breaks loose from my eye as I remember my Clyde. I remember my shirtless boy.