When I walk across the Square, or even beside it, I see those winding sycamores beyond the black wrought iron fence, the garden and grass and trees, the fountain I know in the center, rectangular, and the benches along the curving sidewalks. Sometimes, even with a sore ankle or tired feet, I wonder, should I walk along the outside? Or, cut through the park, for when I stroll through there, though my steps do not slow to a saunter, I cannot help but think back to those I knew there, and spoke with, and that I am chasing ghosts. It could be late summer or late spring, it could be early fall there, where more recently I used to run into “Big Redd,” the father of a schoolmates I knew of back home. Those school days, even further back in …
