Company Day. I know it by the smell of grilling in the air: barbeque sauce, grease, and delicious-smelling smoke. Somewhere, a marching band plays. This must be a long time ago, because I still believe my father’s promises. He says he will meet me in the park and we’ll eat ice-cream sundaes together, just like old times. The fact is, we have never met in the park and eaten ice-cream sundaes. Those “old times” are completely fictional, existing only in the deluded depths of his mind where he’s the greatest father in the world. Today, I walk at the bottom of a canyon of skyscrapers. Distant fireworks crackle, but nobody in sight is celebrating. A tangle of faceless people hustles past me, their eyes downcast. Above, on a balcony, a woman is grilling, flipping a piece of chicken with metal tongs. She blinks the smoke from her eyes. She frowns. She doesn’t see me. Nobody sees me. A child somewhere laughs. Ahead, on the next block, the green expanse of the park beckons, but an endless blur of passing cars separates me from this oasis.
