Saving

Legs folded, deep in the slump of a mid-day work-week, I looked up from my plate of baba ganoush to see a family picnicking not too far away (their legs folded in solidarity). Their gestures to one another were comfortable, but still animated, and I envied them their nonchalance. Caught up in what was clearly an engaging conversation, their thoughts drifted away from their 2-year-old daughter, who took it upon herself to make friends with other park goers. She bypassed me (I probably looked too bitter, too weary for friendship) and headed straight for a man stretched out on his back, asleep. He did have an aura around him—unraveling backpacks piled unevenly around him like so many offerings to his continued solitude. People had been keeping their distance. He looked grizzled, happily lonely. Too young to pick up on--or to care about—such implicit social pacts, this little girl walked straight up to him, and began talking. With feeling.

It took several seconds before he stirred, several more before he sat up, disbelieving. In the manner of her family, she gestured as she spoke, to the trees, to the sidewalk. She look at him bluntly, waited for his answer to whatever slew of questions she had just posed. I watched nervously, expecting anger of his part, or a facet of the same bitterness I felt to be outside, only halfway enjoying the sun. But he drowsily responded, apparently to her liking. She continued to talk, to gesture, and he watched her patiently, waiting for his turn to respond.

Her parents had noticed her disappearance, by this point. They turned abruptly, spotted her chatting happily and watched her, waiting for a break in her speech, a good moment to catch her attention. She saw her parents call her back, and after taking just enough time to prove her indifference, she turned around and barreled back to the picnic blanket.

We get older, we lose things: pocket change, earring backs, favorite sweaters. We’re frustrated first off, and then learn to deal with loss as a way of becoming lighter, of shedding things that weren’t even necessary to begin with. We like to make this idea work in the abstract: we think of the things we lose as distractions, trappings—“everything thing we really need,” we think we gain as we grow older. We can make the choice to hold on to everything worth saving.

I like that idea of being lightened by what’s lost. For the most part, it’s kept me from going crazy over whatever’s misplaced, irreplaceable. But the clear-eyed curiosity that led that little girl away from her family, that sparked (what appear to be a highly engaging) conversation with someone unknown to her, is something I wish I had saved. That’s what’s at the root of this urge to tell stories, but I’m older, and more cautious. Given the opportunity, I’m not sure I’d have such spirited comments on the trees, the sidewalk. I’m not sure I’d be willing to stride past a barrier of backpacks, confident that neither they, nor an uneasy attempt at sleep, are cures for loneliness.