Taking his brown felt fedora in his left hand, he raised his right hand to brush back the unruly strands of damp grey hair clinging to his temples. It was a grey morning, unseasonably warm for the end of September, even at this early hour. Extending his left arm from the sleeve of his tweed jacket, he glanced down to note the time: 7:58 am. Seven minutes.

He replaced the fedora atop is head, setting it over the mound of matted hair, straggly, yes, grey, yes, but still full. He had always thought his hair one of his best features, and at eighty-three, he was glad to have it still.

He moved slowly, no place he had to be, except where he already was. He had forgotten his cane when he left the townhouse — when was it? — now forty-five minutes past, but he did not need it. He turned his head, face bathed now by the warm mist, marveling at the elms — yes, of all the trees, the elms brought him the most delight! — leaves at their edges just beginning to yellow. Soon, he knew, these trees would be dressed in golden splendor and he would come back on a cloudless October evening, strolling along 5th Avenue as the sun set behind him, to wonder at the burnished glory of the elms.

But, today, this Friday — Friday, September 30, 1960 — he had set out early, to reach the oasis of Central Park early, to spend these moments in the place he felt most at home amidst the superabundance that is New York, to spend these moments where wonder and beauty and God seemed most accessible to him. It was here he wanted to wait.

He had long dreamed of this day, or to put it rightly, God had long planted in him a dream of this day. And now, at last, it was at hand, the day when something new would come into the world, when someone new would come into the world, someone of no kin to him, and, yet, someone, to whom he would be forever connected.

He looked again at the elms,, now walking beneath them as he turned down a path into the park, cool drops of water sprinkling his head and shoulders as the winds moved through their branches spread wide. He know those who had painted these trees, doing their best to capture the quintessence of elm with discernment of eye and movement of hand. He had painted them, too, with words, with not pastels or oils, doing his best to capture what he knew was impossible to capture, but finding joy in the trying.

That’s what he wanted for her, the one who was coming, to know the joy of wrestling with words, just as Jacob wrestled with God by the river bank, no chance of winning, but every chance of being blessed immeasurably. He wanted her to know the delight of playing with words, of learning their colors and textures, their nuance and their mysteries, their power and their limits.

And he knew she would, because she too would be a poet.

(For Ann van Buren, member of the Deer Isle Writers Group, born at 8:05 am on September 30, 1960, in Manhattan.)