The World Is Open, The Store Is Closed

On the last August evening of the final summer of my twenties, I sat in Prospect Park and waited for the bats. A man played the banjo and whistled and sang as men do in parks in Brooklyn in evenings toward the end of August. "The world is open," he sang. "The store is closed." The hard green acorns already scattered beneath the trees. All the ladies wore kerchiefs. Girls soccer had begun.

The bats arrived much later than they normally do--those Northeastern bats, all pointed behinds and cartoon wings. Mosquitoes sucked at my toes and ankles and wrists. I twisted the thick, late grass between my fingers, ate an apple or didn't. For reasons passing my understanding, I was ill at ease. I stood up, dusted myself off, and walked home.