He squats down so low his nose is only few inches away from the ground. His eyes start to fixate on all the things he has never seen before. The weeds start festering since few days ago, so what he smells and sees are nothing but the rawness of growth, the microscopic lives on the ends of the new shoots spurting and breeding colours to decorate their new houses, the mother earth who churns time—as always. The nascent myrtle shoots are already glowing milk-blue colour; sparrows are beginning to find their energy in the dark freckles, their wings somewhat ready to bring their bodies over to the other end of the world—back to where they belong. Everything’s alive today.

But why don’t I feel anything?
He thinks to himself, as he finds nothing from his attempt to feel happiness during this time. Maybe it’s because the park’s empty, except the newness that accompanies him in this scene. To him the last season hasn’t gone away yet. In fact, he is proud that he survives the months of December and January without having to wear his drab denim coat that his father, before he dies, gives him. He still wears his torn, aged hoodie as he gradually finds a seat on the bench; his Christmas gift from when he was five.
There are four benches in the park: two of them are here since twenty years ago, one is brought here two weeks ago, and the last one is repainted a month ago. The brownish hues, however, mask the age almost too perfectly, so he looks at the dust on them and figures, this one’s less garbled, so he picks the one in the middle. He sits, and some wetness sinks into his sweat-pant, around his buttocks, and at first he doesn’t register the sheets of ice slowly gluing onto his garments. But, they cohere after a while; his pants sip the water slowly but surely, and by the time he realises it’s too late—he can’t stand up because water will roll down his legs and into his new socks.
But, he soon diverts his attention to the other things. The sky, bleeding grey in one corner, seems to hint…rain. Rain, yes, something that they miss for the past few months; it is finally here. Finally the earth can be cleansed. He then remembers the sorts of conversations he used to have with his mother when winter arrives, because his mother always has the Bible open to Noah’s story. The memo of the book starts rolling back into his head: in Taipei winter rain is just another business to tend to, so whenever it rains their porch will flood. One particular year, however, rain went on for few days in a row, and thunders rolled for few minutes without stopping. He cries in his bed because the thunder scares him, and this leads him to thinks Noah’s story is coming true. His mother comes into his room on one afternoon to speak to him.
“Jesse, remember those stories will not come true. They’re stories.”
“But…but…”
Patiently she sits down on the corner of the mattress, and answers, “You know, God only punishes those that are wrong. You’re not doing anything wrong. You are scared for no reason.”
“Is that true?” The naive child asks.
“Of course.”
“So I won’t get in trouble even if I’m bad in school?”
“No.”
Silence.
“If there’s nothing else,” his mother instigates, “go ahead and do your homework.”
Since then, she vows that she’ll have Noah’s story open on the table, so whenever it rains outside he’ll have his mother’s words for it. She, however, is now high up in the air saving her time for the next round of life; maybe, he thinks as he looks into the approaching nimbus, she will be his mother again.
Without giving another thought, he rolls his head sideways and turns to the sunny side. No rain, no pain; he thinks to himself, just as his sight starts to follow the streams of shadows gliding from the steel bars enclosing the park towards his bench. The lean, oblong figure shifts because the sun exercises and moves leftward. But moments later a dog comes right out, with his tongue almost completely withdrawn. How strange, he thinks to himself, for he has never seen anything like this before.
And the next second the dog lies immobile, on the ice, devoid of panting.
The beige body moves no more.
Look at it from behind, the dog’s slim protrusions makes him the most cowardly one that Jesse has ever seen before.
What a shame.
But why don’t I feel anything? He thinks to himself.
What a shame.
Gradually, he stands up, feeling the frigid paunchiness denting his abdomens and thighs, and sticks his hands into his soaked pant pockets. His hands feel wetness, and it only seeps through his bones, and burns through his fingertips like loneliness does. He takes out and tosses two crumbled, hurl-like notes onto the body—one faint edge reads ten, another reads five.
“I hope that’s enough for you, dearie; I certainly ain’t worth that much—not anymore.”
He then leaves the park, alone, without anyone to take care of the water stain he just lets it freeze; cringe; and weep.