Sometimes I picture him coming here. He gets off the bus in front of the pavilion. He carries a cane, wears a fur hat. It’s winter. That’s how I imagine it. He walks cautiously down the path next to the library then passes the preschool. In a maze of cars parked any which way he patiently picks his way through. He doesn’t say anything, he simply observes. Sniffs the air. It’s freezing outside. The sound of snow crunching underfoot.