Walking through the common today on my lunch break, I had a lovely little moment. It was gorgeous out, and everyone was lying on the grass, hands holding up books or sandwiches, other hands resting on the thighs or stomachs of their companions. I couldn't hear their contented sighs, but they must have had them. The entire park was sighing contendedly.
Well, all except a white tent on the far side of the common, which boasted a big banner that said "Old Fashioned Revival." I wanted to see if I could hear the preaching and the wailing from the path I was walking on, so I took out my headphones. The music I was listening to pulsed and buzzed distantly in my hands, and sure enough, I heard the preaching (no wailing, yet). A man in a dark suit was shouting, "The fire downnn below! It never STops BURNNNING and Mark tells us ..." etc. I thought about going and standing in the back, hearing more about this fire, but I pressed on. Another song, aside from the one pulsing in my hands, came from deeper in the park, and I realized it was Michael Jackson's "Thriller," played on saxophone. It turns out it sounds kind of classy like that.
I was nearly bursting with all of this, delighted, in such a lovely mood and so happy with the city. I came upon an elegant Asian woman walking a little gray and white kitty with a pink leash. The cat seemed happy enough, slinking along the ground, smelling whatever cats can smell. Thinking of our own cats on leashes, knowing they would hate their lives, I stopped and asked, "She lets you keep her on a leash?"
"Yes," she said. "She more like dog."
Someday, somehow, I gotta find a place for that cat in a story.