I prefer to go on foot when running errands. A time-consuming way to go about things, but if I have the time (and if it’s not freezing or raining too hard), I’d rather take it. Strolling the side streets on my way to the discount grocery store, I find quiet moments to myself—ones that would not be felt in the thralls of city three o’clock traffic, on high alert for drivers who have forgotten that they too are mortals.
From behind my red sunglasses, I watch the moving lips of strangers in casual chatter. They grow a secret world which I can only witness. I’m stealing with my eyes, soaking up whatever laughter drifts up and over the fenced-in yards onto the sidewalks. A neighbor embraces a friend. People load heavy boxes into the bed of a truck. A fat cat strolls into the middle of the road, sits in a patch of light, and licks its leg. A cyclist speeds by, and the cat glares at the interruption.
I call the cat out from the middle with a tutting sound, scratching my nails on the concrete to grab its attention. It has two deep jewels for eyes and a rather strong jaw for a cat. It allows itself to be pet before strutting off to a random porch and scanning the garden for songbirds. I’ll wash my hands when I get home.
Cafés fill with conversation, pondering over phones, books, and questions. A dog, whose leash is wound around a wrought iron table, pulls toward another table, where a child is intentionally dropping breadcrumbs on the floor. The child laughs—cherry-faced and toothless—as the dog snaps at the air in an attempt to catch the crumbs. The sun hides behind a periwinkle haze. The shadows are soft and long with its rising.
As I walk, children line up at a street corner, awaiting the arrival of the school bus. Their backpacks cause them to slouch forward, counterbalancing. I recall my own youth—I had given up on my ability to remember exactly what to bring home and decided to bring my whole locker with me everywhere, resulting in one shoulder always slightly lower than the other.
I wish not to take the cat home. I wish not to befriend every beautiful stranger I see. This appreciation only works because mystery is allowed. If I touched for longer than a few seconds—if I took the cat home with me or peered over the fence posts and introduced myself—the magic would be violated. Besides, I’ve got those I place my trust in, and those are the ones I wish to water. I keep walking as I’ve got a shoulder to realign.
With spring comes a need to purge. I open every window and light a candle, scrub the floors, and beat a rug off the front porch. My cat presses his face against the screen, staring into the window of my neighbor’s apartment.
A cardboard box fills with items no longer needed—candles, plates, mugs. A keychain. Ribbons. When full, I offer it to the street corner, labeled free. A sort of street offering: take what you need and leave the rest.
I’ve had my own luck at these altars. My latest treasure was found atop a yellow recycling bin which had been flipped upon its head, turning it into a table. Upon it sat a collection of handmade pottery. For myself, I took a small white plate, decorated with colorful swirls and a crackling glaze—perfect for serving small treats to guests.
If I do not go out—if I remain stagnant, stewing in my own thoughts—inspiration escapes me. But when I go out into the world, I am created by casual wonders. Men with dedicated hands, working diligently as they repair roads and houses. Dandelion heads growing plump and golden before transforming into a fairy wand. The wide world, my secret garden.
Oh, I loved this. So vivid.