There were no blooms in sight like in the spring, but there were so many different versions of green that it was actually shocking.
The two white stone obelisks that flank the Eastern Parkway entrance were the only real interruption to the green aside from the cloudless sky. I had no plans for this afternoon other than to get lost in the garden and bask in the impending autumn. With no money in my pocket and a work ID that gets me free entry, it seemed a fiscally wise choice.
Quickly my enjoyment of the fresh air and lush visions were destroyed by an alarmingly large presence of waddling pregnant women and white blonde children in double strollers. Who said they could be here today? Didn’t they know this was my day in the garden, not to be disturbed by the happy family?
I felt crushed by an overwhelming sense of injustice which immediately sparked my confusion; do I really want that for myself? Am I missing out on swollen ankles moving me at a glacial pace, or snotty screaming strollers of small beings destined to hate me for screwing them up? This answer I don’t have. My anger and frustration at these sights really lies with the lost opportunity I once had in my pocket, there if I wanted it, until I let it go.
Heading deeper into the garden lead me past meditation groups, mothers holding hand with their grown daughters, and couples tangled up on benches. I settled on the high peak overlooking the rose garden below. The long row of benches dodged in and out of the sunlight, I chose the shaded. The rose garden in the distance was sparsely speckled with pink and white blooms. Brooklynites know that June is Rose Month, after all. These were the leftovers.
I imagine I can hear the breeze I see disturbing the branches over the music in my headphones; Chris Cornell fading into Patsy Cline. Yes, Patsy, let’s fall to pieces. He wants to pretend we’ve never kissed.
At the far end of the roses I can make out the formal line up of a bridal party being photographed. A gradient moving from blood red to stark white, and then to black. Smaller white clad figures pitter through the group; ring bearers or flower girls. It is a prefect day for this couple. There is breeze, sun, but not a cloud in sight. I note they may be grateful for this, not realizing that a slightly overcast day makes for the most flattering photos. The bride’s dress billows out behind her. No matter what the scene thirty yards ahead, from my vantage point she is beautiful.
Without thinking I uncross my legs and stand to walk to her. The rose garden is open so it wouldn’t be awkward. Public space and all. I descend the stone stairs flanked by small arching blooms and enter the rowed pen. I am Alice, for a brief moment, each time I am here and it makes me smile. Amazing how easily a grown woman can revert to backyard pretend play and look for the Queen of Hearts chastising the white rabbit.
An errant pop song begins on the comforting walking-in-the-garden mix I assembled prior to leaving; a young woman questioning how much easier her life could be if she could only act like a boy. I leave it, the girl’s got a point after all. By the time I snap a few shots and reach the bride I am singing to myself along with Tom Petty about an American Girl.
The bride is young. Her dress is like a tiered cupcake with cascading silks, awful. It is pure white. She looks so happy, but so young.
I continue past the bridal party, through the rectangular gazebo, heading for the rose exit. Guests for the wedding are standing by as the bride poses with her mother, her new husband‘s mother, all three together. I take particular note of one guest; a pale curvy red head walking in a turquoise strapless dress two sizes too small on top. I become immediately afraid for her; she is one deep inhale away from a fabric roll to a nip slip. I see her goofy boyfriend holding her had, smiling. It’s not his fault, poor guy, if he said anything to her he’d be massacred. Or maybe he didn’t notice, leading her through the last of the rose rows, maybe he was picturing her in her own bridal gown someday.
Reseating myself in front of the cherry trees I try not to stare at the hipster couple laying in the grass. This was clearly single or nearly divorced woman torture day at the BBG. I sit for a while to try and just be. She-hipster is fairly non-descript, but he-hipster has the white rimmed sunglasses and beige trucker hat that are practically hipster official issued uniform. I pretend I am not watching them through my own shades, but I am. Why wouldn’t E do that with me? Why couldn’t he lay in the grass on a nice day with no purpose other than being? Silent whispers here and there, a touch or a kiss between thoughts drifting through silences. Instead, quality time for us existed in dimly lit old garages and metal shops reeking of brake cleaner and carbide. This discrepancy was one of one hundred that slowly inched him out of my pocket before I’d ever thought about pulling him out completely.
Dolly begs Jolene to leave her man alone and I decide it’s time to leave the garden. I had enough vitamin D.
Heading towards the exit, I turned on my senses full steam so maybe my brain could shut the hell up for a bit. I walk through groups of people wearing too much fragrance which fades to the acrid smell of a baby having its diaper changed on the grassy hill next to the walkway. I see inexcusable camel toe, old couples holding hands, people posing for silly or sweet photos. And then there they are. One roll to nip slip and her goofy smiling boyfriend. Hand in hand, no nipple yet in sight. I reach into my pocket and turn up the music. “It shouldn’t bother me, no, it shouldn’t bother me, no, but it does.”
The walk back home is dominated by thirst and sadness. Sad that I am not nip slip girl with a man by her side through poor fashion choices and other real tragedy, smiling and guiding her by her hand.
