The Elements of Zion: the Vine, the Branch, and the Thorn

Chapter 3 Eulogy in Central Park

I reached into the passenger side of the truck and grabbed my backpack. It was the one issued to me while in the service. I guess knowing people in the supply unit had its benefits. Worn from deployments, the bag's camo offered little urban concealment. One of the straps still had a faded bloodstain that I could never remove, a grim reminder of a friend who didn't make it home.

I slid it onto my back and fastened the buckle across my chest to make it snug. The weight of it was oddly comforting, like a piece of armor I could wear against the world. It was now late afternoon, and I needed to get to Central Park. I stepped off the curb, signaling for a taxi with the ease of a native New Yorker. Within moments, I found myself in the backseat of it.

A gruff voice broke the silence, "Where ya headed?" asked the driver in a thick Brooklyn accent. His eyes met mine through the rearview mirror.

I leaned forward in the back seat. "Central Park."

"You got it, pal," he said with a nod, and we were off.

We wove through the cacophony of traffic, the taxi splashing through puddles leftover from an earlier rain. The city seemed to transform before my eyes as the taxi carried me to a place where I hoped for solace. Within twenty minutes, the cab pulled to a stop near the park entrance.

As I tried to pay, the driver shook his head and said, "This one is on the house. Thank you for your service."

I tried to smile but could only offer a slight nod and said, "Thank you."

I shut the door, and he pulled away. As I entered the park, an eerie silence followed me, and I felt like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. The scent of hotdogs and pretzels from nearby food trucks lingered, drawing on memories of afternoons spent laughing on the lush green lawns.

Beneath my feet, the cracked pavement transitioned into a dirt trail, pulling me further into this metropolitan wilderness. Sunlight peeked through the canopy of leaves overhead, their dappled glow replacing the abrasive sounds of city traffic with the soothing melody of crickets. Amid the pandemonium, Central Park emerged as a haven, miraculously insulating me from the outer world's tumult.

As I navigated the subsequent curve of the pathway, I found myself before a thin, well-worn bridge. Beneath it lay a vast pond, its placid surface mirroring the distant silhouette of New York's skyline. The striking contrast of this composed oasis against the backdrop of the vast city I had just exited was compelling. This secluded nook of Central Park felt both integrated with, and distinct from the city - a peaceful pocket of surreal detachment.

It seemed as though I had located an entrance to an alternate reality, an enchanting mirror of my own world yet seemingly unaffected by it. A feeling akin to being poised between bliss and despair inundated me, immersing me in a surge of indefinable emotions.

I shuffled towards a bench stationed near the water's fringe, hastily discarding my backpack. As the pack's weight lifted from my shoulders, I felt a similar lightening of the oppressive weight of existence. Quietly wishing that I might finally uncover peace in this panorama, I opened my bag to reveal a half-drained bottle of liquor. The sharp taste assaulted my tongue and stung my lips, yet I was indifferent. I took a deep draught, the liquor's warmth rapidly infiltrating my system, providing the illusion of solace it always delivered.

Suddenly, an unexpected movement caught my eye. An eagle, magnificent and powerful, soared through the trees. It was a sight I had never witnessed in all my years frequenting Central Park. I blinked, almost certain that I was hallucinating. But there it was, the eagle, flying with a grace and majesty that commanded awe. A surreal moment in an already surreal setting. I blinked again and it was gone.

Gradually, my vision began to blur, the reflected skyline morphing into a distorted mockery of the world it represented. The colors of the sunset bled into one another like watercolor, and the silhouettes of the trees became ominous shadows against the fading sky. As the world around me darkened and seemingly closed in, my breath began to slow, my body weighted down by an unspeakable sorrow and a sense of despair I couldn't shake.

I took another sip of the bitter liquid, the warmth spreading through my veins as the last of the daylight faded behind the looming buildings. "So here we are," I mused aloud, the cold mist of my breath dissipating in the frigid air. "It's been a while since we last talked. I don't know why I'm having this conversation now, because I feel it's all too late at this point."

I sat there, dazed by the weight of my thoughts, wracking my mind for the right words, the perfect explanation. The city's orange glow gently illuminated the bridge around me, casting long shadows over the steel and stone. "I'm so tired," I whispered.

My fingers trembled as I reached into my wallet, pulling out a well-worn photograph. Underneath the dimly lit streetlights of the bridge, the most precious memory of my life unfolded. There she was - my daughter. In the picture, she was just a tiny newborn, swaddled in a pink polka-dotted blanket with a matching cap adorning her tiny head. Her eyes were closed as she lay there, sleeping peacefully, completely oblivious to the world that had welcomed her.

The memory of that day flooded my senses: the scent of sterile hospital rooms mixed with the faint aroma of flowers; the sound of my own heart pounding in my ears as I held my baby girl for the first time; the softness of her skin under my fingers. It was the single happiest day of my life. I smiled at the photo as tears filled my eyes - burning hot against the night's chill. "You know, I always wanted a boy first," I confessed, my voice cracking. "But I fell in love the moment I laid eyes on you."

"God," I pleaded, my voice hoarse with anguish, "please take care of her."

Folding the picture up and tucking it into my front shirt pocket I reached back down into my backpack to feel something cold and metallic. My hand traced the contours of the barrel until it met the grains of wood on the grip. Carefully, I pulled it out and looked at it. The pistol was a German World War II Luger that my grandfather had brought back from overseas. It was in pristine condition, and its weight felt both heavy and somehow comforting in my hand.

The day my father gave it to me after my grandfather's funeral was permanently etched in my memory. The mixture of pride and sadness in his eyes as he handed it down to me had brought tears to both of our eyes.

As I stared at the weapon now, I remembered the days spent hunting with my grandfather – the sound of the wind whistling through the trees, the smell of damp leaves and earth, and the first time the recoil had surprised me when I pulled the trigger. I shook my head as if to shake out the memory and noticed that my hand was trembling.

I willed myself to put the pistol down, but it was as if I wasn't in control of my own body. The darkness I had been struggling to hold back for so long began to take over me. I wanted, needed, it to stop, but it was relentless. I wildly eyed the half-empty bottle of liquor beside me and grabbed for it, downing the remaining contents as I gasped for air.

As my head spun, I felt hot tears streaming down my face. Weakly, I whispered, "I'm sorry, Abby..." 

My hand began to rise with the pistol, slowly aiming towards the side of my head and I pulled the trigger.