Sunshine

The park is so beautiful this time of year: The ground strewn with petals, sitting gently on the heads of winter's leaves, the trees the green of animation forests, lit by sunshine tinted by the waves of wind upon your face. There are just the right number of oaks to hide behind. There are just the right number of sticks to scratch notes into the dirt for anyone to find. There are just enough blades of grass that you will never finish counting them. You will never see where the dandelion seed goes as it blows away from you. You will never know exactly when the dirt turned so rich and dark, exactly when the sky fell open and showed its blue underbelly, exactly when the path turns into ground turns into forest and stone. Nothing is too many or too few, except the seconds spent in the calm. I could live in a park alone for days on end without remembering my identity, while still knowing who I am.