PARKED-AT-HOME

My boyfriend runs a soccer game on the Presidio on Saturday Mornings.  A former professional player with knees gone wrong, he's the grandfather and coach of the group.  He arrives an hour before anyone even thinks of the game, stakes out the field, sets up the pop-up goals and waits to greet the players - twenty-somethings, some who are experienced and some who are new to the game.  M calls the shots, sets up the plays, encourages the "kids," gives warnings of "be careful" when the ball rolls into the empty street.  He's ever watchful, layering his love of the game with his joy at seeing young people succeed. There's an old man who comes to my park each day at 4:00 without fail.  He has a truck that can only be described as junky; garden equipment is tied to the rotting wooden sides and piled in a manner that makes each item  - rakes, leaf blower, water canteen - nearly indistinguishable.  I know what each of these things is because I see him unpile

I planted Giant Sunflower seeds in the small lot between the sidewalk and driveway.  The ground is moist, fertile for change.  I bet they will grow.  In the summer, people from the park might cross the road to look at them.  Small children might tip their heads up wondering if the sun can be touched.  The birds and the squirrels will surely gather seeds. Come late summer, the bright yellow of the petals will wane; the stalk will become hard and dry.  Soon it will fall over or beg to be chopped down. I am not finished yet. I want. I want a home of my own. My mother's east coast garden blossomed for years after she had passed.  Rows of hostas, summer green and variegated.  Stalks of phlox that were once taller than me.  Zinnias dotting the bed that extended the length of our backyard. Pear and apple trees giving so much fruit we couldn't pick it all.  Even that magic could not last forever, except the daffodils that proliferate and bloom still.  I am like those bulbs that