Kimmy’s Garden

Surrounded by people buzzing around attractively, I am in this sunny place looking for someone. While the hum of conversation is too loud, I am soothed by the purring of the transit buses outside of this cold window.

I sit away from the sun, and I search through the sea of well-dressed professionals who look confidently about for glances, and who cast their eyes away when they receive. They – who may make intelligent business decisions without pain – cannot decide what to have for lunch today. Continuing to read their newspapers and reports, they do not acknowledge the man dressed in a green smock and houndstooth pants – table height for convenience and expediency – discretely slide the tray of food from his shoulder to the table top before their raised pages.

The waiter is naught but he who prepared the food for these ingrates. His compact muscular body and missing teeth make him a favourite to pretend to take no notice of: his appearance causes discomfort to many. But for me, that this olive may have been caressed by his fleshy hand, I consume the green pepper of his scent, the cucumber of his taste … the fresh lemon juice and spiced oil cover my lips as his kisses would a time ago.

I watch as others take no time to forget him, and I wonder why can’t I? I realize now that I won’t find whom I am looking for here. I leave this warm false place for the slap of the real wind of winter and the tickles of the snowflakes that follow each other – like lemmings to their death – to my salt stained cheeks.