One early morning in May, beckoned, it seemed, I went to a park. As if ushered in, I entered. The air was so fresh, so palpable, though I could not see it, it felt as if it held me in its embrace. It infused me as well, and I was rejuvenated by it. As I walked more deeply into the park, my breathing also deepened. I thought the air might consume me. The path upon which I tread bespoke nothing of purpose or destination, yet it bid me follow. My steps obeyed. The morning dew had moistened and darkened the yellow dirt of the path. All dust had settled. The grass on both sides of the path was also drenched in dew, bathing in the morning sun. Diamonds came to mind. I kept walking. The surface of a pond shone before me, welcoming. Drawing nearer, the surface broke to reveal the pond’s depth, its spirit. This spirit smiled at me through a female face, beautiful but quiet. Where the sun could penetrate the pond’s body, I saw gleaming stones, and fish, swimming effortlessly. A faint breeze played with my hair, singing lightly in my ears. Was it a classical aria? Perhaps it was a song of love. I was stolen away, forgetting who and where I was. From above me, the shrill call of a bird returned me to my senses. Looking up, I traced its flight across the most blue of skies, beneath clouds of purest white. As if from heaven, a flock of similarly coloured birds descended in reckless pursuit of the solitary raptor. Before they disappeared beyond view, they filled the air with riotous song. The mist hovering above the pond’s innermost reaches transformed the colours of the trees on its farther shore. In the largest trees, browns became black, greens darkened into the richest hues of blue and purple. Standing there, with so much wisdom and dignity, they spoke in silence of the history hidden within their rings. The younger trees bore lees dense foliage of translucent lemon-yellow, their slender trunks and tender branches seemed nearly swallowed by the light. But through the veil of mist, I was not really certain what I saw. Were the trees suspended? Were they there at all? Curious, and entranced, I took a bridge through a curtain of dream, to see. This side of the pond was a different world entirely. The path was of stone, lined by beds of flowers. How could so many colours spring forth from a soil of dull yellow-brown? My eyes lingered on each and every blossom. I was sure that if I neglected one, the dew on its petals would turn to tears. Nor did I miss the buds, or those half-concealed in shadow. And the trees were real. When I touched their leaves, even the most fragile ones, I was surprised to feel their texture. Finally, I sat down on a dark green park bench, harboured in the bosom of a beautiful tree. This tree, neither too old nor too young, was as a mature woman, embodying a perfect combination of grace and majesty. The sun was piercing the clouds, separating light and shadow. All colours intensified. The leaves were lined with gold. Grey shade became blankets and patches of violet. I took out my paper, paints and brushes, and began to paint. My heart was overwhelmed with joy. I have never been back to that park again. I could not bear to see it altered in any way. To remember is enough, simply to remember.