The park is a quiet place. Tranquil and sunny. Squirrels run back and forth jumping from limb to limb. They like to be fed. They will take nuts from your hand if you let them.
The park is a loud place. Wails and screams of anguish. Cries of pure pain and grief permeate each blade of grass, each slab of granite, each sheet of tissue.
The park is a comforting place. A place of rest, a place to visit and reflect. Sometimes, the park is a place to laugh.
The park is a painful place. Mothers fall to the ground watching the casket lowered, children weep and cry for the parent they’ll never see again, lovers embrace the chill of knowing they’ll never be held by them again.
The grave is closed, the ceremony is over, and they all exit the gates, to embark on their new normal.
And then, the park is quiet again.