Across the street.
Its
funny how something as childish as a park can play a major role for so many
people, all from different walks of life. The park just across my building
speaks a variety of stories. Some of newly wed couples, some of budding love.
Some of healing souls, and some just of the funny events at school.
First a
barren ground only of dust and rubble now holds tropical greenery. Fragrant
flowers and lush trees in the midst of
which we are able to lose ourselves. Benches that grant us relaxation beyond
any spa treatment, and even a little pond that does everything to add to the
ecstasy.
The
sounds of giggling children, heartily laughing adults echoes through the air,
carried gently by the breeze into every surrounding open window.
Although
they are nothing compared to the Amazon,
parks have their own little adventures to offer. Mystic caves formed by hollow tree barks or
lazily limping bushes, hidden trials surrounded by enchanted vines and covered
in crisp autumn leaves, all ours to explore.
But
parks offer their greatest gift in the earliest hours of the morning. One that
only the early birds are granted to experience.
The very first rays of the sun carry with them the cool morning breeze. The
air is sparkling and scented anew. The
grass and leaves both high and low are carpeted by little liquid diamonds. The
morning dew is a gemstone like no other.
Parks
aren’t only a play ground for children. They are the diaries in which the world
writes its deepest secrets, the shoulders we seek the support of. The park
across my apartment is a sanctuary, a reserve for the essence of the growing life around it.
Living it Up,
Memon Me.
