What does the future hold?

How many times have I walked on the path of this park? The grass has gone from green to yellow and from yellow to green so many times that sometimes I see green grass and dandelions in December.

Did I see kites on the sky last spring or have I seen them every year? I’ve been coming to this park for so long and always with different emotions. Sometimes the ducks and the geese are here, and they will never know how much I have lost and lose again when I remember.

Elizabeth Bishop wrote, The art of losing isn’t hard to master. / Then practice losing farther, losing faster: / places, and names, and where it was you meant / to travel. Learning loss was never my intention. I lost my father figure at seventeen, and I lose him again when I remember.

When I walk on the path of this park, I see people who I’ve seen before: the couple, the runner in her pony tail, the family of four, the man with a hunched back and gray hair. These details seem inconsequential everywhere else but here.

This is the park that changes and also stays the same. I think about how much I’ve changed since the first day I ran in this park. I walk in it now because I don’t run anymore (I don’t run anymore because of an ankle fracture).

Of what remains the same, I keep visiting this park. As I walk in this park, sometimes I see the clear divide between the person I am today and the person I was 8 years ago.

As I walked in this park, I was often lost in the same thoughts and questions I had 8 years ago. I asked myself, What does the future hold for me?

The park had been trying to teach me a lesson it has taken me 8 years to learn. As I walked on the park’s path, I thought a lot about the future. The park repeated: There is no future. There is no future. I didn’t listen. I held on to my illusions.

Photos of the Park


Louise Gluck’s poem “October” and the blog Writings from the Couch inspired this post.