The shouts and instructions of the players echo behind me, the language familiar but impenetrable. So many voices, so many people out on this day. A middle-aged man in a suit sits blowing soap bubbles. They drift away from him, rising above the pedestrians on the sidewalk beneath. Given breath, they hover there for a moment, an impossible glistening, before popping and vanishing into sky. It’s a beautiful spring day and people, optimistic after the long winter, are out in the sun. It’s a kind of parade, really, and every one of theses people is the star of their own movie, an unknowable plot churning within that’s just waiting to be realized.
A woman coasts on a bicycle. Her hair shorn down to a grey, jagged buzz. Something that indicates trauma. She slows, glances over to the stadium. It looks like she is going to smile, like maybe the day is a relief to her, too, like maybe all her suffering had been a passage to mercy. She twists her body and spits, a wild and violent hatred in her eyes.
A reminder.
Even on a day like this.
And past her, across the street, shaded by trees and the tall buildings surrounding it, is a little Parkette. A couple, barely visible, are about to sit on a bench. The ice cream cones they hold are a vivid white. They shine like torches. The pigeons, summoned, come softly down from hidden perches, landing like angels to feed on this mortal light.