There’s a statue in the park. Tall as a man and the bronze as dark as shadow. And he just stands with his hands hung stiffly loose by his sides and he’s looking straight ahead. His features are not so well defined so he could be anyone.
One winter, when the night was sudden and fallen, and the street-light yellow did not reach into where he stood, I slipped my hand in his and leaned a little into him and stared ahead, as though we were looking at the same thing. His hand was cold and hard, but I could imagine it different. And not just one winter night, but many nights after, and just standing with my hand in his.
I talk to him sometimes. In whispers that only he can hear. I share with him small moments of my day, the miracles that are easily missed. The play of light on glass in the city morning; the taste of sugar on my tongue, or salt; the sound of trees shifting in the warming day. He is a good listener.
And one day I am calling him Eddie, and I do not know anyone by that name so it must be his. And Eddie presses my hand a little and his silence is as loud as words and we stand together looking at the winding path and how it leads into the hidden centre of the park. And one day I pull at his hand and I will him to walk with me, just a step. A baby step at first and just one. But Eddie stands firm and he is stubborn and still.
I master my impatience and then it is enough just to be beside him, hands clasped, and holding onto the dark time together. And the things that I say given brief shape in my cold breath and the tips of my fingers nipped by frost. And I tell him about someone at work and flowers on my desk and scribbled notes with kisses at the bottom. Eddie does not blink or tighten his hold or beg me to be only his.
And some nights I am there and some I am not. And I miss him when I am with this other man. And when I am next in the park I stay a little longer and I have more to tell Eddie and all my words are breathless then.
And Spring comes creeping at last, on tip-toes, and then one great leap, and the dark shrinks, shrinks, and the time with Eddie is different for we are not so often alone. And the man at work is more bold and he sleeps over some nights and he says he loves me and he says he always will. I do not know if I believe him, but I know that I want to.
And I see one morning what it is Eddie has been staring at all this time, for the risen sun is full in his face, and in mine when I stand beside him, and I shade my eyes against the hurting light, and he does not.
And before leaving, I notice that the palm of his hand is not as the rest of him, but is like burnished gold, like he holds a piece of the sun in his palm, and I know then that it is not just my hand that he has held this winter. And Looking a little closer, as close as kisses, and I see that there is the smudge of gold on his lips too. And I tell Eddie goodbye, and there is no spit or sting in leaving him.
May 23, 2014: Among them.
Patricia Ann McNair 
There’s a statue in the park. Tall as a man and the bronze as dark as shadow. And he just stands with his hands hung stiffly loose by his sides and he’s looking straight ahead. His features are not so well defined so he could be anyone.
One winter, when the night was sudden and fallen, and the street-light yellow did not reach into where he stood, I slipped my hand in his and leaned a little into him and stared ahead, as though we were looking at the same thing. His hand was cold and hard, but I could imagine it different. And not just one winter night, but many nights after, and just standing with my hand in his.
I talk to him sometimes. In whispers that only he can hear. I share with him small moments of my day, the miracles that are easily missed. The play of light on glass in the city morning; the taste of sugar on my tongue, or salt; the sound of trees shifting in the warming day. He is a good listener.
And one day I am calling him Eddie, and I do not know anyone by that name so it must be his. And Eddie presses my hand a little and his silence is as loud as words and we stand together looking at the winding path and how it leads into the hidden centre of the park. And one day I pull at his hand and I will him to walk with me, just a step. A baby step at first and just one. But Eddie stands firm and he is stubborn and still.
I master my impatience and then it is enough just to be beside him, hands clasped, and holding onto the dark time together. And the things that I say given brief shape in my cold breath and the tips of my fingers nipped by frost. And I tell him about someone at work and flowers on my desk and scribbled notes with kisses at the bottom. Eddie does not blink or tighten his hold or beg me to be only his.
And some nights I am there and some I am not. And I miss him when I am with this other man. And when I am next in the park I stay a little longer and I have more to tell Eddie and all my words are breathless then.
And Spring comes creeping at last, on tip-toes, and then one great leap, and the dark shrinks, shrinks, and the time with Eddie is different for we are not so often alone. And the man at work is more bold and he sleeps over some nights and he says he loves me and he says he always will. I do not know if I believe him, but I know that I want to.
And I see one morning what it is Eddie has been staring at all this time, for the risen sun is full in his face, and in mine when I stand beside him, and I shade my eyes against the hurting light, and he does not.
And before leaving, I notice that the palm of his hand is not as the rest of him, but is like burnished gold, like he holds a piece of the sun in his palm, and I know then that it is not just my hand that he has held this winter. And Looking a little closer, as close as kisses, and I see that there is the smudge of gold on his lips too. And I tell Eddie goodbye, and there is no spit or sting in leaving him.