Margen
I walk home late through the park since I started working the closing shift. At two on the dot the sprinklers come on, and I always notice the same thing: one of the arms of water sweeps across a square of bare gravel with no grass, no flowerbed, nothing to water. One morning I mentioned it to the gardener. He showed me the irrigation plan: that circuit isn't on it. They've disconnected it twice, he said, and within a week it opens itself up again. They've stopped trying. The corner bar keeps old photos of the neighbourhood. In one from the seventies, where the gravel is today, there's a pond: children crouching, a dog drinking, paper boats. They filled it in when they built the car park. Last night I walked past at two, as always. The water was falling on the gravel, and the wet gravel smelled of pond: of water with years in it, of sunken coins. I stood there a while, watching. Some places never learn to be dry.