I am sitting in the Students' Park, in Belgrade. Through the years, that park has so many times served as our meeting place, that it has become an integral part of our love. Each time I leave the city for a while, on my return I hurry to my park first. I am so eager to see it, as if I would be to meet any old friend of mine. The park meets me with open arms -- with its lush greenery and an abundance of shades and colors. Each time it is richer, more beautiful, more mine. I think I will never be able to pass through it without stirring strong memories. It will never be just an ordinary park to me, one among many, although I have seen the famous parks of the world.
From afar, coming closer, I spot its impressive entrance; the fence covered with rich, climbing ivy, tall -- now gold and balding -- tops of the trees. And I always feel the same joy and admiration. I am wondering if those hurrying through the park, as well as those sitting on its benches, resting, see how beautiful, how glorious it is in all seasons.
Now again, after a long time, I am back, sitting on one of the benches where you and I used to sit so often. I am admiring our park. My memories grow and swarm, the images in my mind replacing one another. The time is slipping by, and I do not know whether I am still waiting for you there, like a long time ago, or just sitting and remembering, admiring my park, our park, fastened to the seat by the magnitude of its beauty and the power of my memories.
The park has gradually emptied. Even cold and bare, it still is not dead for me. I am sitting there all by myself, quietly, while the time is passing by. The golden leaves are falling in showers.
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Twenty years have passed. I still often pass through the Students Park. In fact, every day, since I work in the National Library, across the street from Kalimegdan. There are many fine parks in Belgrade. The Students Park, I am noticing, is unkempt as nearly all of our parks are. People sit and eat in it and litter everywhere. The dogs relieve themselves on the grass. From time to time you can see a peasant woman visiting the city for shopping, taking her worn shoes off and airing her tired feet. Just an ordinary park. It does serve its purpose, though. But, it is not mine anymore. I pass through it like everybody else, hurrying to do some shopping before I can take the bus home. Conveniently, the buses stop and turn around here, headed to various parts of our city.
My husband's office is looming over the Park, right here. Next to his building is the home of my closest friend and mentor, Mrs. Bratic. The Park is still a very regularly used meeting spot, especially for me and my husband.
I see some young people in the Park daily. They sit and read, study, chat and giggle, or wait for each other between the classes at the nearby University. Perhaps, they wait for their dates here, too. It is their park now.
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Twenty more years have passed. I do not live in Belgrade anymore. When I come to the city of my youth, from America, wherever I go downtown, I have to pass by the Students Park. It is an old park, one can tell: sturdy and enduring, but the wall has cracked and the wrought-iron fence needs painting. Its greenery is still springing to life over and over again, every year. The park faithfully serves its purpose. The new generation of students sits and reads, studies for their classes, or waits for their dates. I watch them, while I take off my shoes to cool and relax my aching feet. Some senior citizens are playing chess next to my bench.
The park is full of memories for me.
I remember you, in this same park, smiling, and rushing toward me, so much in love, many, many years ago. And I remember you, later, coming from your office, to meet me, your pregnant wife, so we could go home together. I remember, even later, our little daughter playing in the sand, waiting for you to come out and join the two of us to go home together. And, each time I pass through the park, I remember something else. Christmas parties, every year, at your office, when our growing daughter performed in front of other parents and their children. Our pride, our happiness together!
Our daughter is a successful wife, mother, and a professional now. And I am alone, aged and tired. I will not sit down here to rest. I will not stop to remember, for memories can kill an aching heart.
The last yellow leaves are silently falling.