The Wrong Time

I'd finally found a place to sit alone.

The bench in the park at dusk,

nobody around,

the light going soft and orange,

the kind of moment you're supposed to want,

the kind of moment that's supposed to heal you

or at least make you feel less

like you're falling apart.

Then the sprinkler went off.

Not the gentle spray you expect,

not the kind that soaks the grass slowly,

but a violent eruption,

a full-body soaking,

water in my face, my clothes, my glasses.

I stood up too fast.

My glasses were beaded with water,

everything blurred, distorted,

the world suddenly made strange

by the simple act of moisture.

A group of teenagers on the grass

started laughing.

Not unkind laughter,

but the kind that happens when

something unexpected occurs

and you're young enough

to still think it's funny,

to still think someone else's

misfortune is entertaining.

I took off my glasses

to wipe them.

Everything went soft.

The world without definition.

The teenagers, the bench,

the grass that was now soaked,

all of it just shapes,

all of it just blurs of color

and movement.

I put the glasses back on.

The teenagers were still laughing.

I was still wet.

And the sprinkler

was still going,

still announcing to the whole park

that this moment,

this stolen moment of peace,

was never really mine to keep.