High Bridge Park

Sunny and cold, just a day before Halloween—a grandfather and his grandson walk the wooded area of the park. Both of them wear jackets over sweatshirts, hands stuffed in their pockets. The grandfather approaches a fallen tree—it’s been there for a long while, shorn of bark and branches, gray from the sun. He steps onto the log and begins to follow the length of it. His grandson does the same. And for a few seconds they’re both suspended above the dirt and grass and pine needles, hands outstretched for balance, these men, these boys. The grandfather becomes younger and the grandson becomes older until they’re the same age, the same person, even. And then it’s finished. They descend—the grandson kicks at a pile of pinecones while the grandfather says hurry, hurry, we don’t have much time. But we just got here, the boy says. And they’re both right.