I went to the park with a book. It was a gorgeous day – no longer hot as dragon’s breath, but nicely warm. Compared to most of this summer, 30 degrees Celcius (86F) is only warm. In a lot of countries that would be sveltering, but not in Toronto, not this year.
I went to the middle of the field, an expanse of grass, left long-ish by the Parks people and I like it that way. The scent of it, the intensely green smell was all around me, enveloped me, carried me off to a place of leafy heaven.
I closed my eyes, turned my face towards the sun and basked. There’s no other word for it: I basked. The light suffused the world, bathed me in its yellow warmth, flowed through my skin, into my body, all the way through to the bones, warming, relaxing, healing. I felt aglow with it. A drop of sweat trickled down the back of my neck, taking with it all my worries, leaving only sun.
The wind was perfect, too. Enough to refresh and that was all. Lazy waves of air lapping against my sunkissed skin, leaving the smell of summer on me, to take home, a transient memory of this.
Only one more thing to make this a flawless moment. And ah… there it was: