Flight
I came here to this park for the first time when I was
a young boy. I don't remember everything that happened
then, but I remember the important parts. A man appeared to
me. He wore silver wings and there was this really bright
glow behind him. He looked at me and I wasn't scared, even
though my mom had told me not to talk to strange men in the
park. She said that they were dirty and awful. But this
man was beautiful. His features and physique were perfect.
He told me that his name was Michael, too. He said that I
could be like him some day, that I could fly. And then he
went away without even moving at all.
When everything fell apart a few years back, I came
back. After I pulled myself from the crumbled ruin. When I
drowned myself in the alcohol. That's when I wanted to fly
the most. That's when I needed to. I still do. I've been
waiting for Michael to return ever since, right here in the
same place. To show me what I must do to fly like he does.
I just hope I didn't miss him during all my time away.
Pigeons
When I have food to spare, I give it to the pigeons.
They always seem to need it more than I do anyhow with all
the fighting and scrambling they do to get even the smallest
crumb. I like to watch them in their desperate race for
survival. It makes me feel like my situation is common
among the rest of the animals. For some reason, I feel just
that little bit better knowing there are more of us.
Sometimes I have to fight off the larger animals that
roam around here, though. The raccoons, the dogs, the cats.
All of them scavengers. They take the things that I need.
And I've always found it difficult to sleep while a cat's
rattling around in the garbage.
Some animals are just too small for me to feed or to
bother with. Some animals just aren't worth the trouble.
The Three Witches
There used to be three witches who'd come to the park
when I was growing up around here. I don't know if they
were real witches, but they seemed like ones to me at the
time. Gnarled grey hair and wrinkled skin. I think they
even had a few warts here and there. They always wore dark
dresses that hung around their swollen ankles with the blue
paths in them.
Each of the witches had a large black bag, soft and
aged. I never once saw them open the bags up, though. I
didn't go near them at all because they were witches. But I
watched them from behind the trees, listening to their
chatter and their cackling, always hoping that they'd open
up one of those bags and take out something magical. Right
there in the middle of the park. But they never did, and I
always found something better to do. It was just the way I
was when I was younger.
I wonder if they're still around here somewhere. Still
working their magic. Still carrying the black bags with the
secrets inside. I wonder if I'll see them on their twisted
sticks, riding high above the clouds, when I get to fly. I
wonder if they'll ask me to come with them. I wonder.
Duck Pond
There is a crystal duck pond in my park. I often sit
and watch the ducks in their play. They won't come near me,
though. Perhaps it's because of the smell I wear. Maybe I
remind them of some nasty predator. Or maybe I just remind
them of a distant relative that the rest of the family just
doesn't like to talk about. Whatever their reason, the
ducks just won't come near me, even when I have food to
offer them. I guess I can't really blame them too much.
At night, the ducks go away. I don't know where they
go, but they just don't seem to stay in the pond. Maybe the
water's too chilly at night. Sometimes when the other
animals leave me alone, I bathe in the pond. The moon and I
dance in the glistening waters. The stench of my existence
is cleansed, but it is never completely washed from me. It
always returns and eventually regains its strength. I guess
it's just become a part of me that I'll never lose now. A
part of who I am. But my time with the pond and the moon is
special to me. They're the only ones who will dance with
me. The only ones who will accept me and who I am so
easily.
The ducks don't stay when it gets colder and the snow
starts to fall. They don't seem to like that at all, so
they flap those wings of theirs and fly away. The pond
freezes over and the moon doesn't seem to dance there quite
as often. And neither do I. When it's cold, the pond
doesn't seem to accept me quite as easily. It builds that
wall that everyone else has given. The wall that keeps them
from looking at me. The wall that won't let them see who I
am.
The ducks are right to go away when the pond is frozen.
They know when they'll be accepted and when they won't be.
When they'll be harmed and when they won't. The ducks may
not know it, but they've got it good.
My Name
My name is Michael Kincaid and it always has been. I
don't know why my parents called me that, but they did, and
it stuck. I've never been Mike or Mikey. Perhaps my
parents called me by those names when I was an infant, but I
don't remember that far back. In my adult life, though,
I've always been Michael. It always seemed dignified to me.
The name brought me some attention, because people had to
take the time to pronounce both syllables instead of just
one. I always insisted on it.
I've been told by former friends that my name means "he
who is like God". But I never feel like God at all. I
would think that He would have much more control over his
domain than I do. At least I hope so. You really can't
have any less control than this. But I really believe in
the meaning of names, so perhaps I have a chance. Maybe I
just haven't realized who I am yet. Maybe my wrinkled skin
and silver hair are just make-up to keep the rest of the
people from suspecting me. Maybe I'm even older than I
think I am.
But I had a daughter once, I remember. Looking at me
now, you wouldn't think I could ever have had one, but I
did. She was called Heather in tribute of her mother's
native Scotland. And her name fit her perfectly. She was
very much like a flower, a plant, a soft thing of nature.
Very much a part of the land. She loved to play outside in
the grass and leaves. And just like the greens, she
withered in the time of the chill. But when the spring came
again, she didn't come back. She didn't rise out of the
ground to spread her flowers to the sun.
She was Heather, her wild hair, black as the earth,
flowing in the wind. And I am Michael, one like God,
without wings, without control, without Heather.
Minstrel, Play My Song For Me
A musician started coming around here a few months
back. She was a violinist. She played sweet melodies that
reminded me of days gone by and people long gone. I thought
she was very good and so did everyone else, it seems,
because people who visited my park gave her money. I never
did, no matter how much I loved her music. But she never
acknowledged me or the money-givers anyway, so I guess it
really didn't matter. It was a simple beauty that I hadn't
experienced for a while. A simple pleasure that was very
dear.
One of those days in the month, I got it into my head
to approach her and ask her to play a song for me. Even
though all the songs she'd played by then had been
beautiful, I wanted to hear a special song that meant a lot
to me. One that flowed like the wind, straight into my
heart, and warmed me. A song that I considered my own.
"Cecily" by Janus Thorne. It was so beautiful and I hadn't
heard it in so long. I went to her. I needed her to play
it for me.
But when I asked, she didn't respond. Not a word. She
didn't even look up from her playing at all. It was as if I
wasn't there. Or maybe she wasn't there. I asked her
several times, but then I just gave up and listened. She
was forming a music all her own. She didn't need an
audience at all. Nor did she need me telling her what to
play. She was playing for herself without any care of the
world around her. Hers was the heart song, the soul music.
The music that cries and sings and laughs. The minstrel
didn't return the next day. Or the next one after that. In
fact, she never came back. I guess she went to find a place
where she could play for herself without anyone asking her
to play for them. Without anyone asking her to take their
dreams and pains and desires on her shoulders, too. She
played for herself, an expression of her emotions and her
own personal music. She could never play for me.
Harrison the Cop
There is a policeman who roams my park from time to
time. His name is Harrison. I don't really know what his
first name is, because all it says on his little name badge
is "Harrison". That's all. He's always whistling some old
tune that even I can't remember. Or maybe he just makes
them up himself. He seems to be that sort of man. The type
who would make up a tune to whistle just so he could
whistle. He's always happy.
I don't really know that much about Harrison, because
we just don't chat. He doesn't speak to me often. He used
to tell me that I couldn't sleep on the benches and dig
through the trash. But he doesn't do that any more. I
think he understands now that this is my park and he's the
one who's intruding. Now all Harrison does is comment on
the day to me. He always thinks it's a good day even when
it's not. Harrison's always having a good day, after all.
I figure that he's a family man. He must be to be so happy.
He must have a daughter and a wife. And maybe a dog. But
he can't have any less to think that every day is so good.
I have my good days and my bad. But the good days aren't so
good any more and the bad are just as bad. I don't know if
my days will ever be as good as Harrison's. But I think
they will be. Some day, mine will be better than his.
Because I'll know what it's like to have a bad day. And
I'll feel lucky not to be having one.
Silver Candles
Sometimes I get so cold that I need to build a fire to
combat the elements. But the look of the flames chills me
instead of warming me. My body needs the heat, though, so I
burn the wood and trash anyhow. I just close my eyes.
My wife, Marissa, used to love candles. Everywhere we
went, she'd look for them. Sweet ones that smelled like
honey. Ones that smelled like a forest full of bright
evergreens. And sometimes she'd just get ones that had no
special smell at all. Just the smell of wax wafting through
the house. But these candles would often be the most
precious of all. Because they would be the ones with the
clever designs. The ones with the twists and the knots and
the grooves and the little corkscrews. All of these
interesting patterns formed in the wax. And she'd just sit
there and watch them burn without anything else distracting
her. No sweet smell at all. Many times, I'd sit with her
in the near darkness, watching the candle burn. Watching
her face as it filled with light and laughter.
One time we were in a small town in Colorado. My wife
was pregnant at the time and we were looking for things for
the baby. While there, we found a small shop that
specialized in candles. The store had dozens of shelves
filled with them. From the unscented to the scented, from
the sublime to the ordinary. I remember my wife squealing
with delight, her blue eyes glistening in the low light of
the shop. We spent hours there, looking at all of the
candles, enjoying ourselves completely. During my time with
my wife, I'd gained a fair amount of appreciation for the
objects she coveted so.
She picked out many candles, perhaps around two dozen.
They were all special in their own way. But then she saw
the silver candles. The deep silver-colored candles with
the children dancing around the base. With the cherries and
the swirls and the magical twists and turns. That's when
she fell in love. That's when she saw her perfect candles.
But then she saw the price and she wouldn't allow me to buy
them for her. So we left the shop with candles in our
hands, her dreams left behind trapped in the bodies of
silver candles.
Early the next morning as she slept, her enlarged tummy
in motion under the sheets as she breathed, I snuck out with
all silence. I went to the candle shop and waited almost an
hour for it to open. There, I again found the silver
candles with the children still dancing beneath. I paid the
price and headed back. Her birthday was coming up in a few
months. I figured that I'd give her the candles then as a
present. There'd be no way she could get mad at me then.
I approached the hotel that we were staying in, but I
never made it to the door. The whole building was on fire.
Men from the local fire department were trying to put it
out, but it seemed to be in vain. Others were trying to
keep it from spreading. I couldn't see Marissa in the
crowd. I pushed my way through, looking for her everywhere,
but she just wasn't there. I didn't rush into the burning
building then. I wasn't foolish enough then to do that, but
now I wish I did. Because, even though I didn't know it
then, my Marissa was in there. She was burning just like
her candles with our second chance at a family inside of
her. She was on fire, her flame dying far too quickly.
When she died, I went with her. But my body's stuck here on
the earth. She's flying somewhere up in the clouds. I'm
here, away from her, shielding my eyes from the fire I've
made.
Homeless
I hear everyone talking about the homeless and I really
hope that they don't include me. I think some people do
with the way they look at me. But they really shouldn't.
I'm not homeless. My home is right here in my park. It's
my place. It's where I live. It's what I have for a home.
I don't really want to live anywhere else right now. Not
until I can fly away on my own. Not until I've been given
my freedom.
I hope that all the homeless people out there find a
home like mine. I really think they should. But it was
really hard for me to find this place. So difficult for me
to get all the way here. I'm sure it takes a long way to
get anywhere, though. Maybe everyone should just find a
home where they are. Maybe they can visit my park and see
what it's like to find a home as I have. I wish I could
live where I used to, as I used to, with the people I used
to. But I'm not that person any more. I don't think I
could ever go back to that. But it's always possible. When
you've got wings, you can go anywhere you want. I'm really
not too old to travel that far. And I really can't fall any
further than I have. I want to fly so much. But for now,
I'm just happy to have a home. I'll never be homeless.
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