I meet Lu on the corner of my street, across from the high school where I spent so many years of my life waiting for my son to exit. We ride our bikes along the back road closed to traffic that has turned into a quiet bicycle lane, coming out onto Kew Bridge. We park by the riverside; the long drive along the water backed by trees feels like a country lane. At the gate, the woman who checks our tickets wears a mask and a green sweatshirt; we walk through metal fencing set up for absent crowds.
First we find the outdoor canteen, and order two earl grey teas with milk. We decide to walk on a loop through the outer ring of the park, toward the wild corner and back via the Pagoda. Every time I pass the bamboo hide of the Japanese garden I think about Virginia Woolf’s story; I see myself looking back at her through a lens at the bottom of which she peers ahead at me. Lu and I let our talk unspool, adding our voices to the generations of conversations dropped between trees.
At the corner across from Syon house, people sit on benches looking out at the river. The sun at 3pm is already low in the sky, dipping behind a screen of thin cloud and turning the light pink and gold, reflecting off the still river where it curved. At this bend, the city does not exist, just these ancient stretches of land, one given over to the public, the other still clutched in private hands. We stop to take…
