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St. Augustine Library

Melissa Kosciuszko

    In my car, safe and mostly cool, I see grandparents pushing their two year old grandson on a swing amongst the trees, back-dropped by the carousel and its red and white striped tented roof. The rest of the play ground is still, mulch and dirt undisturbed, jungle gym waiting patiently for its Saturday fun to begin. Inside the park gate is protected, trees hovering draped in Spanish moss, picnic tables calling, and old-fashioned lights ready to light the way once the day is done.
    Beyond the trees runs A1A, tolerating rushing cars. I know they hold people, but they’re only cars, only Hondas and Chevys and Mercedes, each one unique but still the same, just cars.
    Right outside the gate, I sit in the library parking lot, just another car, waiting patiently, and to the side of the protected land is a worn cement platform. The pole no longer bares a flag, and the vegetation invades over and around it, unkempt and ugly—but somehow prettier than the park. This is where they sit. Plastic bags hold their belongings, those treasures too valuable to leave behind, worth the effort of carrying—of always carrying. The Juniper hangs over, leaning across my view as if hiding, denying their existence. I love that they don’t care about being seen or unseen. They found a comfortable spot, and there they sit, talking and fidgeting.
    Each is unique, clothing, build, and hair, but I don’t really see the differences. That’s how it always is. Cars are just cars. Grandparents are just grandparents. Children all seem so much the same. We nerds at the library on a Saturday morning will always be nerds, and they will always be faceless, no job or car or house to define them.
    Evidence of their worn legs and hips and feet shows in their walk, but they move anyway. They don’t seem to notice the pain and wear their bodies feel, and then they move on. The grandparents play, the parking lot fills, and the wanderers move on.

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