It was a perfect morning to make the four mile lap around Prospect Park—that was until I bumped into a lesbian I pretended to know.
Summer again has shown mercy on this cold town. A morning sun was up over Nostrand Avenue by 8:00 a.m. and a warm ray of sunlight had already made an appearance over my neighbor’s chain fence and illuminated the little patch of land that I choose to sit upon on Spring mornings when it’s not so cold and I go outside to read poetry.
St. John of the Cross’s poem of the Dark Night of the Soul returned my racing mind to that place of inner tranquility that only those on the mystic path understand—wow, such prose, I thought as I read a stanza about meeting the sweet lord under an apple tree—how odd—there is an apple tree in my yard here in Brooklyn.
My mind was so serene following an hour of tampered meditation—one word I chose to meditate on—oh how my mind was refreshed.
Time to run, I thought. Just get out and go and open up those lungs—no work today—no job to report to. How many years have I spent inside of cubicals on nice days, wishing I was off—just to absorb the tender warmth of Spring and the gentle glow of God in me—
St. John of the Cross spoke of sneaking into the master’s inner wine cellar and drinking of the best vintage that the lord has to offer—understood the poem perfectly, that was until I ran into that lesbian I know while running around Prospect Park.
She was heading in the wrong direction—counter-clockwise from the flow of normal bicycle and jogger traffic around the park—
“Charles?” She yelled, as I was in a near sprint speed—thinking of nothing but the wonderful smell of freshly mowed grass and those large trees all around Prospect Park.
“Hello!” I yelled, breathlessly, looking her in the eyes, wondering just who she was.
“Do you remember me? Harlem United?” She asked.
“Oh yes—how are you I asked?” Not speaking her name.
“Very good? You?”
“Breathless,” I said, “Please pardon me. Are you still at Harlem United?”
“No. Left that place and social work almost ten years ago. I’m a mid-wife now.”
“How marvelous,” I said, not really sure what a lesbian mid-wife is exactly, but I assumed the white woman walking with my former co-worker was the women who hires mid-wives.
“It was so nice to see you,” I said—wishing I was much better with names—for the life of me I cannot think of that woman’s name, although I do remember her face somewhat. Maybe she put on weight since I knew her. Who knows. I was glad to cut them off without talking too much or breaking my stride. I took up off over a severe incline, still chasing the Indian man who had passed me on the loop around Prospect Park.
Such a race I was on. I wanted to beat him. He seemed to challenge me. So much for the lesbians walking in the wrong direction.
Skate boarder dude came out of nowhere—nearly ran me down—but oh so beautiful he was this morning under that May sun—from the Lord’s inner most wine cellar I assumed—blonde hair and blue eyes—
“Where’s your mid-wife?” I yelled at him—assuming that he was not much over eighteen and had no business flaunting himself at me like the lesbians who try to break my stride.