children however, fast asleep in their tiny green puffer jackets, look to be having a great old time, the two of them under a thin blue blanket, conveniently big enough to cover just the two of them. Contrast. I choke on the air and march on by. I feel as if I have been punched, reaching all the way to the back of the throat. I stroll teary eyed. Another mother, putting her children before herself. Saving for months to buy you a new toy, when the bank balance is too scarce to afford a meal of her own. A poignant taste fills my mouth. I make a turn to a street at random, and it is not long until I come across a seemingly out of place vast patch of green. The ‘Treasury Gardens’. I remember it well. My mother and I stayed in a hotel. Just the two of us, not far from it. The occasion? Watching the glorious Manchester United play Crystal Palace at the MCG. What a night. Not a bad day either. That day we took a stroll under the yellows and purples of the autumn leaves, at the very same park. Without a second thought, I turn into the garden. An older man is sat alone on a park bench.
He must be in his late 50’s with receding dark greyed hair and a hefty, grizzled beard. I stare at him, and he glances back. He gestures to come and sit by him, and so I do. I look up into the clouds, and time seemingly slows down. I had forgotten about my ‘wet rat’ looking apparel ages ago. That was until the man looked at me like I had just asked to marry his brother. I take a seat next to the African American man. He turns to me, and his shiny silver cross flings out from his creased dark - blue polo. He’s wearing a dark green coat, and some torn brown trousers too. “What’s your name?” I ask. “John. John Morton.” “It’s great to meet you, John.” “Likewise.” He replies.
I smile. I’m not too sure what it is, but considering the heaviness the night has shown me, sitting side by side with this wholesome stranger, and staring up into a dark blue sky has me at ease. We sit for a while, taking in nature as if it were our last night here in this place. “What’s your story John?” I mutter “I was a broker, here, this very city. Big time. A wife, shiny blue car. A check green as grass. Even with all that, miserable I was. The days flew by... the shining light of my life was and always will be my beautiful daughter. But after the divorce, I was left with half of everything I owned, and by the end of that night, I left myself with nothing
at all.” I nod.
“And yours?” “Braeden, sir.”
“Rock bottom, but I must say, it must be the third best thing to ever happen to me. You see, when you have nothing, you learn to make your own happiness. It’s not in the job title you hold, or the car you drive. It resides within you. When you realise that,
“It’s nice to see there are still some people who have their manners these days,” John’s laughter, moving into a chest cough.
69
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