Monday, May 11, 2020

At the end of the pedestrian street, a pale pink flower falls from a tree. It gets wedged beneath an old truck’s wiper blades. Branches with purple flowers cover a garbage heap. Discarded masks and gloves lie around them. On a narrow path, a man with an orange vest, protective earphones, and cargo shorts trims a tall bush with a chainsaw. He is facing east as I approach from the west. He can neither see nor hear me. There isn’t room for me to safely walk by. I toss a twig with yellow flowers at him. It hits him in the leg. He turns, sees me, and shuts off the chainsaw. I walk past him and nod. He nods back, waits until I’m at a safe distance, and switches the saw back on. Traffic cones block the street where the bus stop had been. The usual vehicle and the worker in the chair aren’t there today. Down the block, what had been a large pile of books is smaller now. The children’s books are gone. Translations of foreign bestsellers remain: “The Secret”, something by Paulo Coelho, and John Clavell’s “Shogun”. A tiny pair of girl's jeans with embroidered patches is draped across a bench. It has been there for about a week. Someone has taken the pair that had been next to it. Around the corner, a porcelain seder plate rests on a low stone wall. I think about taking it. I don’t. Other passersby might need and treasure it more.