Cabbagetown Park

I can still remember the first time I saw Cabbagetown Park. It was nighttime and the weeds were as tall as me, overgrown and ominous, blocking paths, without any flowers for the moon to reflect its evidence. Nearly a decade later, now my friends and I sit on benches and blankets as families walk past the fresh cut grass with their glass of wine in hand one hand and their dog or child at their side. Kids swing in the playground; adults stay young swaying on a tire swing wrapped around the arms of a wise tree. When he visited from San Francisco, we sat on a bench talking, undisturbed by the static of park’s electricity, just he and I, hand in hand with Mary Jane and the fog of dreams that she inspires. Facing the teal house, I confessed to him that I wanted to run away to the Bay Area, maybe even to the City of Angeles. He pointed to the pretty teal house and said, “What if I buy that house and we get married?” He stared at it for a hard ten seconds. “I think I could be happy in that house,” he said. “I think I could face this tree and watch these families and their smiles and be happy here forever.” I sat in silence. A couple walked past us and waved. “People in San Francisco,” he continued, “they don’t say hello to strangers.”