The park is half illusion today. My eyes well at what I interpret to be a gothic wedding. The bride in billowing black holds a bouquet of chrysanthemums. My emotions are seemingly primed to flow forth at the mere suggestion of hopeful lovers, but I keep watching as who I assume to be the groom slowly lowers himself to the ground and climbs inside a heretofore unseen coffin. On closer look, what I’m observing are film students directing actors playing mourners at a memorial. I hear what I think is a drumroll, a sound effect cueing the fictitious services, but is actually a tantrum on an aluminum slide. “Quiet please,” a man in a visor says to little effect.
I sit on the benches usually occupied by elderly men and their dog lookalikes, but none of them are here today. On my right, a father holds his son’s bottom in the palms of his hands lifting him towards a tree branch, whispering instructions about which knot is best to place which foot on. The son wails “I’m trying” into splintering bark, fear pulsing through his body a few feet above the earth. On my left, a different boy with a similar haircut scampers up a tree with ease. “Stay focused when you’re up there,” his father mumbles, receding into shadow. “I can’t,” the boy on my right screams, trust falling backwards into his father’s open arms.
I always wanted a child, but I never knew how.
The bench is across from the church which is next to a baseball diamond. The boys do the same things today we did way back when to distract ourselves from the crumbling cognitive dissonance of everything we were promised the world we inherited would be: America’s favorite pastime. “Sick, dying, dead,” we called it. A game of catch with children sprawled between bases. Each player begins in perfect health. Drop the ball once and you’re labeled sick, drop the ball twice and you’re dying, drop the ball thrice and you’re dead. Then you’re supposed to be out of the game, but my cohort of players added a fourth and final drop which left you rotting in the grave. Your body is still transforming, we reasoned, even if your mind has stopped. The chants of today’s kids echo off the trees in a sing-song melody reminiscent of He’s a Jolly Good Fellow. “You’re sick and you’ll never get better, you’re sick and you’ll never get better, nobody will ever remember! Your insurance will be denied,” they sing.
The boys play through the night. The sun rises. They don’t stop. The elderly men never return. The ball stays in the air. They keep playing, even as they grow. Even as their breath tarts. As their pants become shorts. Their teeth yellow, then orange, then green. Grays flower from their heads. Grasping wrists turn arthritic. A missed catch snaps long brittle fingernails clean from their beds. Knees dislodge. The boys sink to the dirt, but keep on throwing, catching, throwing, catching, throwing — “Pass it to me, dad,” their own sons cry out now. As for me, I don’t stop watching, can’t look away, despite the weight of my dog at the end of his leash. They keep on throwing, catching, singing, unaware their turn is over, waiting for their circumstances to change.
Mary DeCarlo is a writer living in Queens with her husband and cat. She writes plays, screenplays, and stories. Her short fiction has been published in word west revue, Identity Theory, Gone Lawn, HAD, Variety Pack and elsewhere. Her story "The Summer Before the Glitter Fell Out of My Eyes" was selected for Best Small Fictions 2022. She is a member resident of the Woodward Residency where she is currently working on a novel about grief and the healing power and great tradition of country music. For more, her website is marydecarlo.com or you can find her on twitter @merrymarymare.