She calls them discount Magnolias. There’s a small copse of them at the edge of the park next door. She is my godmother. We’re making a lap around the expansive green field, her first outing since the surgery. It’s a sunny 16 degrees. Celsius. I revert to metric when home but really I’ve been unconsciously code-switching since the age of 5.
We make a curious pair amidst the young couples pushing strollers the size of golf carts and snowy haired seniors walking with ski poles. There are joggers and dogs, but the runners are more diverse than the dogs. The neighbourhood has a preferred breed and Doodles dominate the path. We’ve both been citizens of our adopted land for longer than we lived in our native Jamaica, but we’re both layered “appropriately” for the weather. She’s swaddled in a hoodie and down vest with a Greek fisherman’s cap and RayBans. I’m in a leather jacket and ball cap, but wishing I had a silk scarf for my neck. Not quite in the center of the lawn is a man on a blanket wearing the legal minimum. I saw him from her apartment window on the last double digit sunny day, same Speedo. He’s the punchline of a quintessentially Canadian joke.
This big green beach was created by the city to cover the reservoir. Extensive repairs were needed to prevent the flooding of the most affluent neighborhoods just downhill from the reservoir. A park was promised as part of the finished product. Apparently green space esthetics were a late line item. Like when my parents called the loose change from an errand I ran my allowance. I could buy any candy I wanted, within the budget in the palm of my hand.
It took four years to unveil this giant lawn with a paved perimeter. They didn’t even stencil in symbols to organize the flow of traffic. But there is no chaos on the path, most folks adhere to the etiquette of keeping to your right. Beyond its sheer expanse and the impressive view of the cityscape, the park has little esthetique to recommend it. It is not a lap around New York’s Central Park reservoir. And yet, it is an idyllic unlabyrinth-like walk. Safe and familiar. The company and the views. Home. And as we walk I picture us strolling on the edge of a giant Britta jug, as if we were figures in a New Yorker cartoon. Caption this. So random. So specific. Maybe I’m just missing New York. Also familiar. Also home.
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