Forgive the casual visitor for extrapolating a square kilometre
of glass coffins, cracked concrete, and cars and cars and cars
North, East and West as far as their eyes and hearts can pity.
Forgive the fresh-faced 28 y.o. transplants crawling back and forth
from blank condos to carpeted offices to $16-a-drink theme bars.
They will never know Christie Pits Park–they might see it, once,
if they cut short a first date at that Korean restaurant on the corner.
They might glance down from the road at the men on the largest,
fenced-in, swept-and-mowed baseball field and decide to stumble
down the hill for a closer look, but the smell of sewage scares them
back to their attendant Uber (forgive them, for they do not know
the bus stops a block away, and the subway a block further.)
They will never know the two other ancient living diamonds:
one for the boys with thick glasses, XS jerseys down to their ankles,
picking bugs out of the clover and throwing them at the squirrels
while their fathers on the sidelines beg them to pay attention;
the second a little larger, more dust-and-gravel and less greenery,
for the kids who swear they’re teenagers, basically who recently
grew big enough fingers to throw a ball straight-ish almost-far-enough
and begged their parents for a real leather glove, one that fits,
so that they wouldn’t have to borrow one from the storeroom
and pretend not to notice their sweat dissolving it to grey flakes.
And speaking of the storeroom, they will never know the smell
of the metal racks, the vinyl bags stuffed with equipment stacked high,
and the maple, the ash, the birch baseball bats lining the walls
all mingled with the stench of the late-teenage workers’ dirty clothes.
Oh, the joy of being a 19-year-old-umpire in the midst of a first love.
Pulling the bases out of the ground late at night and dragging them
over half a kilometre of grass and gravel back to the storeroom,
running to the back corner to grab your good courderoys and
dress haphazardly so you can go find her behind home plate.
And when she pretends to forget she ever knew you, the clover or the
gravel will soak up your tears, and best of all, the mothers will keep
pushing their strollers through the grass, the dogs will keep sniffing
the lampposts, the music students with nowhere else to practice
will keep blaring their trumpets, the old men in turbans will keep
smoking, the food trucks will keep frying samosas, and you will
realize your little spot with her by the second baseball diamond
was never the centre of the park.
Jaleelah Ammar is a Palestinian-Canadian-American poet living in Ottawa, Ontario. Born in Dallas and raised in Toronto, they moved to Ottawa to pursue a degree in computer science. Jaleelah’s work has been published digitally by Common House Magazine and CBC books.