February 10: Crimson

I stared out the window watching the scene unfold before me like an episode of CSI. Two police cars blocked the path in the park on either side of a concrete barrier. A shiny plastic yellow boundary encircled the space, swaying and stretching in the stiff wind. I saw an officer rub his hands together and stuff them deep into his pockets. It was a cold morning.

Another man walked away from a plain white van. He ducked under the tape, a measuring device with a long handle in his hand. He walked around to the other side of the barrier. My eyes followed him and for the first time I saw the object of their concern. The top of a grey, balding head encircled by a crimson halo that spread from one ear around the top of his head to the other side was barely visible behind the white concrete. A man lay motionless. The officer joined the man who was preparing to take measurements. Pages from a legal pad blew up in the wind. He laid it down on the barrier, just above the carefully stenciled words: "Honor," "Dependability." I watched as one of Tulsa's finest placed a coffee cup on top of the notepad to keep the pages from blowing.

I took in the scene like I did the countless hours of crime shows that blared on hour after hour when I lived with my ex. A man's life became an object, a curiosity. I felt ashamed, yet deeply aware of my disconnection from what was just yards from my window. I stepped away, poured some coffee, and tried to go about my morning like I do any other morning. I picked up my journal, and stared at the blank page. The cat jumped in my lap and rubbed her head against my stomach. I pulled her in close, clung to her. With her in my arms, I got up and walked to the window again. Two men dressed in black suits, ties blowing in the wind, black gloves covering their hands, stood outside the boundary, waiting, their heads turned toward the river. They paced around nervously. A black hearse had replaced one of the police cars on the path. The back door was open, waiting.

Was it suicide? Was he murdered? I squinted to see the words on another side of the barrier: "Decisiveness," "Faith." The two men in suits turned quickly and slid under the boundary. I walked away.

I turned on the water for my shower, and slowly undressed. I wondered about his life. Was he one of the homeless men I see everyday in the park? Did he stop there after driving around in the middle of the night? Did he have a family? Friends? Tears streamed down my cheeks. He was no longer an object to me. He was a person, a man who lost his life, whether at his own hands or the hands of another, a man who spent his last moments in anguish. I thought of my own days of anguish and torment, days not so far gone, days when all it would have taken for me to be that man was one small decisive step around a dark corner of despair. I shivered and stepped into the shower.

I poured the last cup of coffee into a travel mug and grabbed my car keys. I walked to the window to look again, one last distant glance. A fire truck was parked on the street near the path. Three firefighters busied themselves with a rake and a shovel and a bright red plastic bag. The life force of a man that once pulsed through his veins is now hazardous waste. I watched as they spread a grey powdery substance. They walked back to the truck and climbed in. I put on my coat and gathered my things.

I walked down the stairs and out the door. When I got to my car, I looked up. The scene was like any other morning. The emergency vehicles were all gone. The yellow boundary was removed. The crimson halo no longer glistened in the bright sunlight. A group of runners breezed by the barrier, their conversation light, their eyes fixed on the path in front of them. The space is sacred now; their actions seemed blasphemous. I walked across the street and stood on the path. I stared quietly at the place where the crimson halo encircled the man's head. Just above it was the word "Enthusiasm."

Rest in peace, my brother.

January 24: Officer

My neighborhood is safe, from what I can tell. I haven't had any need to be overly concerned about anything or anyone. I live on a quiet section of a busy road, about a block south of a major highway. From my sunporch, I can see the traffic traveling across the bridge over the river that runs in front of my building. When it's quiet, I can hear the roar of the cars passing by in the distance.

This morning I awoke to the sound of helicopters overhead. They were high up, I could tell, and it's not unusual to hear them. I live just a few blocks from a major trauma center, and with the highway close by, the morning traffic copters fly overhead frequently. This morning was different though. They seemed to hover overhead for a long time. I got out of bed, made the coffee, fed the cat and sat down to journal. My attention focused on the paper, I lost track of the noise outside.

Later I went out to run. I crossed the street and walked across the grass to the path in the park. After I stretched a bit, I headed south down the path, turning around to head back after 15 minutes.

When I got within sight of my apartment, I noticed the trash truck had arrived. I silently congratulated myself for remembering to take down the trash on my way out this morning. Then my eye caught the sight of a police car traveling south. The blinker went on just before it approached my driveway. I watched as it turned in, and parked in front of the garage in my building.

I wondered why the police were there. My imagination went wild. I remembered the helicopter. I had thoughts of a criminal running loose, holed up in the basement of my building. It's nice there. I spent the night on the floor of the laundry room once. I know.

I finished my run and stopped next to a concrete barrier to stretch a little. My eyes were fixed on the car, looking for any clue to tell me why the police were there. I glanced at the front door to see if there was a cop waiting on the porch, gun drawn, leaning back, ready to kick in the front door. Nothing. I crossed the street and started up the driveway. I could see someone in the car. Perhaps the officer was checking a computer to get information before approaching the door. Just then, I noticed a blonde head turn from the passenger's side and lean across the middle of the seat. A pony tail sprung from the back of the head. I recognized the face. It was my neighbor. As she reached across, the head of a policeman leaned in to meet her lips.

January 20: Men

I walked down the stairs from my apartment and knocked on the door to the apartment below me. I nervously checked my watch and adjusted the bottle of wine in my hand as I waited for an answer. I heard my neighbor yell, "Come in," so I opened the door and walked into his living room. He told me the party was for his cousin, whose 40th birthday was on Wednesday. He also said that his priest and his partner would be there. He has wanted me to meet them since I moved here, so when the invitation to the cocktail party came, and I had no other plans, I told him I'd be there.

The apartment was full, everywhere I turned there were men standing, drinks in hand, laughing and talking with each other. The dining room table was filled with hors d'oeurve, and a small birthday cake. I spotted the sausage rolls, and reached for one. I'd smelled them all afternoon. The scent of pastry shell baking rose through the vents to my apartment, reinforcing my decision to go to the party. The first bite melted in my mouth.

My neighbor introduced me to everyone, explaining that I live upstairs. One by one, I shook their hands and said their names aloud hoping to remember them. There was Bob who is Craig's partner, and Greg who is Mike's partner, and Robert and Andy, and John and Rick, and Mark the cowboy, and Mark the dentist, and another two or three whose names I don't remember. Scooter the schnauzer, dressed in a handsome black sweater, walked amongst us, carefully making his way through the maze of legs, looking for crumbs that were dropped as we ate.

And I was the lone woman. You must understand this is an odd experience for a lesbian.

January 10: Light

Swaths of light were cut out of the darkness along the winding path through the park. A hooded stranger dressed in black approached, his strides long and quick. Under the orange lamps that hover above the path, I could make out a nose and a mustache. No light was necessary to understand the greeting. His "good morning" brought me back into the space around me. As quickly as he passed, my mind returned to the distant bellowing of trains in the switch yard. The orange patches on the path gave way to the white and pink waves on the river, the lights of distant cars and apartments and the faint image of the flame that flickers atop the smokestack at the power plant. The various textures of the water met in imperfect angles, like strips of paper that form the chaotic pattern of a collage, smooth and silky in places, rippled and broken in others. The dark water glistened under the brightening pink and purple light of the sunrise on the distant horizon.