As I sit on a park bench, I can feel the subway rumbling underneath my feet. My fingers are slightly numb, because I forgot, or rather, decided not to, bring my mittens, nor my hat, with me today. It has been unreasonably warm (6 degrees) and I am no longer in a winter mood, though I seem to have neglected the fact that as the sun goes down, the world becomes colder. But my feet feel no change. For I am wearing my signature dull, black rainboots, which protect me from the slush that covers the park grounds.
The park itself is just one round circle, in the middle of downtown. It is surrounded by university campus buildings and a few museums. Traffic is routed in all directions, so the circle serves its purpose as a giant roundabout. It shares its name, Queen’s Park, with that of the provincial legislature building, which is found nestled between various buildings of higher learning.
It is on a long, green, wooden bench, the first of three, that I sit; the Queen’s people passing me as multiple paths converge and then disperse again. I am joined only by a lone man on horseback, whose sole purpose is to guard those he sees, and remind us of an era that has long passed.
I feel the subway once more, reminding me that my time of accompanied solitude must soon come to an end. My brother might be wondering where I am, seeing as it is about 40 minutes after the time I normally arrive home. I know I must go, move from my solid position of legs crossed, head down, pen in hand. I must rejoin those who pass, those with a destination. A destination is what I seek, and although this park in the heart of the city is where I find comfort, it is not where I need to be. So I untangle my feet, raise my head, and commence my journey home.