I watched the world grow bleak and dark. Shadows rose, scaring even the stars. The temperature dropped until I thought it would snow. However chilled, abandoned, and haunted, I was at peace. It wasn’t until I saw the sparks, the flash, heard the explosion, like fire-works, that I realized something was wrong.  

My parents used to take me to a park in Bloomsbury. They met there, when they were both studying abroad. Three years later they graduated, moved to London, and lived happily ever after. They would sit at our favorite bench and kiss like so many years ago while I played. It was the happiest I had ever seen them.  

Now I go back to think, to remember them, to find acceptance. It’s funny because throughout the years I almost have. There’s this man who comes to the park every Tuesday and Saturday. He wears dark grey pants, a black shirt, and a felt hat. He smokes like a chimney, contributing heavily to the cigarette littered paths. I often find him sleeping under a tree at some point before huffing off after a phone call. On particularly cold days he inspects the power box, often giving whoever is close enough a calculated look. He follows this by shaking his head saying, “one day these cracks will cause a problem.” He disappeared one day, like everyone else I came to know there. Everyone leaves eventually. 

I’ve been missing my parents more and more lately. Our park is where I feel closest to them. It was where we were always happy.  

I never knew how transcendent artificial flashes of light could be.

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