The trees in the park creak and groan as the wind picks up. Leaves rustle at my feet and my hair is whipped around my raw face by unseen hands. I disappear inside my warm jacket and spy the swings over in the corner.
As I sit on the only swing not broken by vandals, one gloved hand entwined round the chain, and my feet scuffing at the tarmac, I gently propel myself forward and back in gentle rhythm. I am lost in my own world. Absent-mindedly my free hand delves deep into the mystery of my pocket and finds a single, solitary chocolate truffle.
I unwrap the truffle slowly, so as not to damage the shiny wrapper. It has a wonderfully rich smell that only chocolate has and the creamy centre of the truffle warms my frozen insides as it makes its journey to my stomach.
The roundabout is twirling through the wind in the distance, but I can’t see it. I am entranced. I can’t tear my eyes away from the wrapper fluttering in my hands. Its iridescent quality is making me feel tranquil and serene. My eyes swim in and out of focus as my vision is replaced by one from a long time ago.
The sun is sparkling in the clear blue, cloudless sky and my ears are filled with the shouts and laughter of children enjoying themselves. The park now has a new atmosphere. (This one radiates warmth and happiness as opposed to oppressing them.)
I see a group of children laughing and playing together on the apparatus while another group chase each other energetically; teenage boys playing football topless, supported by a group of giggling girls; three college girls are sunbathing on the soft grass, wearing nearly non-existent bikinis, ogled in awe by drooling boys. I see a group of mothers unloading a picnic, talking about work.
My eyes drift over the picturesque landscape, and fall onto a shaded patch of grass, surrounded by towering trees, where a couple sit, oblivious to the world around them. A smile forms on my lips as I watch the buy present his girlfriend with a beautiful rose. As she inhales the sweet aroma I remember when I was little and I gave my mum some ruby red roses (those being her favourite flower) for her birthday and how her huge smile, filled with love and gratitude, made me feel warm inside. My own smile widens as I recall how happy she was.
The sound of a lawn mower starts somewhere in the distance and although I can only vaguely hear it, the smell of freshly cut grass is overwhelming. My eyes begin to water as my hay fever kicks in.
Wiping my eyes, I turn back to the mothers, now cooking food on a barbecue. My stomach rumbles slightly as I watch the footballers, their game now over, hastily cramming as much food as possible into their mouths. Meanwhile, the girls daintily pick at their salad, still avidly discussing the match,
(“I can’t believe they won!”
“I know – they weren’t good looking at all!”) the rules of football lost on them.
I look away, attempting to suppress my laughter, which is bubbling in my throat; trying to erupt out, and my eye falls on a little girl and her grandmother over by the jungle of bushes. They’re picking blackberries together. Every now and then the girl puts one in her mouth, without her grandmother noticing, and her eyes widen as the luscious fruit fills her mouth with sweetness.
My attention is caught and I find myself drawn away and looking again upon the families. I watch as the ice cream van trundles through, accompanied by the familiar hypnotic tune, which is adored by children. Teenagers and children alike swarm around it, like predators surrounding their prey. There is a babble of excited voices as everyone places their requests at once; all hoping that there’s will be processed first. My mouth waters – I can taste the delicious ice cream sliding down my throat.
The wind blows a brown and crinkled leaf across my vision, forcing me back to reality. With a heartfelt sigh, I look around at the mess and destruction that was once a haven on a sunny day. On the breeze, I can smell the greasy stench of fish and chips: my dinner. I hurry home, before the gangs come along to get drunk and wreak havoc once more.
