Strange, even gothic, discoveries on a day that had already seen its share of emotional turmoil. The park's lake was tranquil, with gulls picking their way across a film of ice.
But this lakeside tree, with its umbrella and filthy pillow, turned out to be the back door to a dwelling; I circled it and discovered the front door. 
The crude lumber patches nailed over this hollow trunk would have been curious enough, but they concealed a sleeping chamber that appeared to have seen very recent use--more pillows were tucked within, plus some cardboard and bags. As a child, I used to fantasize about nesting in tree-trunks like a chipmunk; this seemed like a sad grown-up travesty of that childish desire. Nearby, the inhabitant or a visitor had left an assortment of cast-off amenities, including many scattered Q-Tips and a latex glove. 
A few yards away, another tree, one with silvery, easily inscribed bark, bore witness to several decades of Brooklyn courtship--so many that some romantic vandal had dubbed it "Tree of Memory." At its roots, a single, fresh long-stemmed rose had been laid upon the ground at a precise right angle. 
For whom? As the devotee of this spiritual master, I cannot rule out the unfathomable possibility that it was for me. The possibility eased my mind a little as I walked home, the sun sinking behind the tennis bubble.
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