The cast of a city rehearses early on the empty streets of a Sunday morning.
A group of women walks three wide on an already narrow sidewalk. Their locked arms link three generations, the eldest in the middle. They have the same conversations they’ve had for decades, yet each week a new detail is recalled. Or, created.
Ahead of them is a man, already short enough, bent over in pursuit of the fourth generation whose little legs power a balance bike. Behind them is a bearded man, arms crossed behind his back, whose eyes have not strayed from his family since they left home.
On the opposite side of the street, an older man is taking his plant for a walk. Out from what must be a flat with little sun, he pushes a black stroller with a split-leaf philodendron in its seat past a doorstep where two sets of lips hesitate to part after spending their first night together. The pair that stays drops to the stoop to smoke its second cigarette of the day and stares at the silhouette skipping off.
Above them is the pigeon lady. Not because she tears bread for the local flock, but because from the rail of her second-floor balcony her chin rests on folded arms and watches the street like a pigeon on a wire. Don’t bother waving, she’s stuck like that. Her neighbor though, shirtless in a Panama hat, would be happy to nod his head good morning to you.
There’s a square up ahead. At its entrance is a range of bottles next to a bin, because redemption values are worth more than a recycle. In its center is a young horn player who has already put the first coins in his cap. The soft timbre of the student’s brass joins a distant church bell and nearby bike bells to create Sunday’s first symphony.
As the street turns to stone, there is a disagreement between the soft soles of a Converse shoe and continuing. It’s time to pause. There’s a seat facing east, at a table on the edge of an alley, that will host a trio of consolations, three-wide.
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A Ricki is a digital diary entry. They’re narrations that document the details and capture the admiration I hold for the world as I experience it. They’re my imagination. They’re meant to take minutes to read, but days to digest.