The last few weeks, this time of evening, when DD is singing at her lesson, I park in the big parking lot of the nearby funeral parlor. Way off to the fence-side where, for teens and other sacred hearts, the lot fills beyond capacity. “‘To the fence!’ it was that packed.”
It is not to the fence but as I am writing, they are beginning to park three and four spaces away. The early arrivers leave toothless slots by the entryway.
The last time I sat here, eight from the gate (my OCD superstitions kick in when the previous vibe has been positive, seeking to recreate that same flow, and I count. It was eight parking spaces), they waked a first responder. All but my car had some emblem or sticker of rescue significance. I felt like an intruder. So I bowed my head in prayer for swift and celebrated passage for that person inside.
I think, from observation, those who hurt the most park close. Those who don’t know how they feel, the middle or edges (usually pulled-through for swift departure).
And those who have made their peace with life and all its affirmations and aggitations park the furthest away.
For the walk.
They can walk and be present; mindful how every step and gesture is somehow important. These are the folk who, planned, gather and flock across the parking lot. They are calm, and more than a little sentinel in how things go.
So, this evening, birds zooming with overjoy and feeding frenzy, as the day comes to rest, that is my view, under the umbrella’d new maple, from the fence.