5:50 am. 35° F. 299 consecutive days. In a row. Cove Island Park. Daybreak morning walk.
Three cars in the parking lot. Mine. A pick-up, with its occupant with a baseball cap over his eyes, car running. And her subcompact Subaru, hatchback up. It’s dusk, but I can see into the boot. Overflowing. Blankets. Boots. Boxes. Some spilled to the ground. Homeless? Living out of her car?
Late 60’s. She’s struggling to put on snow pants, one hand leaning against the car to keep balance. She catches me staring. “Good Morning,” I offer. She replies in kind. I turn away. Give her her space.
I walk.
I can’t shake the image. Alone? Lonely? Cold? Hungry?
Warm morning, quiet, windless. Now, Heavy. It would have been easier to stomach if she was male and younger.
Mary Oliver: When one is alone and lonely, the body gladly lingers in the wind or the rain, or splashes into the cold river, or pushes through the ice-crusted snow. Anything that touches.
I walk.
299 days. In a row. And I’ve not encountered this. I’m on the backside of my loop, and there She is. Left hand swinging a metal detector in a wide arc. Her headphones, over her blue wool hat, listening for the cackle of buried metal. She stops, pokes at the dirt with her pole and keeps moving between the rocks on the shoreline.
I swing my camera from my right shoulder into position. Adjust the focus, once, and then again, and again. I slide my index finger to the shutter button, where it lingers for a split second; in that same split second, the metal detector rests, and she’s now staring at me through my camera viewfinder, through the long zoom lens, her face, her eyes, all bearing down on me. Damn!
She lifts the metal detector and continues — swinging the metal detector in a smooth, quarter moon arc, now with her back to me. Myopic? Nearsighted? Has to be. No, she must have seen me. Continue reading “Walking. With Jack Kerouac.”
