Evelyn Alt

Invisible in the park, I watch the lives of people pass me by.

If I was invisible for a day, I’d go to Culver’s in the morning and sit sideways in a booth on the far right side of the restaurant with my back to the window and my feet up on the seat in front of me while my best friend works her shift at the register.

I’d watch my grandmother walk in after church and order the same thing she always does. I’d watch their interaction and smile, knowing I’ll hear the story from both of them once I’m a solid girl again.

Then, I’d turn forward and watch a woman and little boy holding hands in front of me, talking about what they’re going to order and their favorite things to do when it’s raining. I’d study their intertwined fingers and wonder if he’ll remember this day when he’s older. I’d hear their conversation in snippets, my attention divided between them and the cloudless horizon beside me.

“Do you want any more ketchup?” she asks.

“I’m glad you’re here, so I’m not lonely,” he replies.

If I could observe without observation, I’d watch their faces dance between emotions, staring at the space between their noses, and try to find a measurement for the meaning of their eye contact.

I’d lean into the constant urge to study each shift between expression and twitch of finger.

I’d watch their relationship play out before me with a giggle, a smile, and a playful kick under the table thrown from small, swinging legs.

If I was invisible for a day, I’d walk to the park in the afternoon without my headphones on and sit on the swingset with my feet trailing through the dirt below me. I’d sway with the wind and the laughter of friends teaching each other cartwheels in the grass.

I’d stay silent enough that birds would land on the ground by my feet and hop between my ankles like skipping stones on the surface of a lake.

I’d sit and listen intently to the conversations of couples walking beside each other on the pathway to my left. They’re talking about the squirrels and the sun and how long before her sister flies home from New York City to visit them.

Her hair gets caught in her lip gloss, and he pulls it away gently as she laughs.

He says something about it being the fourth time today.

The bird by my heel trips over my right foot and flies away.

If I were invisible for a day, the normalcy of it all would make me restless. I cannot sit in the park, invisible forever, after all.

So I’d get on a train to New York or Chicago, to California or Kalamazoo. I’d get on a train to somewhere I’ve never been, and I’d stand at the back and watch the groups of people get on after me.

A woman holding her dog and a lifetime of stories I’ll never hear. A man with glasses and the news open on his phone.

If I were invisible for a day, I’d watch as life is spun like candy in vibrant circles around me, weaving through my translucent skin and settling into my gossamer heart.

I’d fall asleep in an empty seat on a train from nowhere to somewhere, with my head resting lightly on the window and my breath fogging up the glass.