Proof of the Existence of a Physical World

 

I had just discovered Bruce Davidson.  It was a Saturday in New York City and I had a car.  The older locals sat along the hundreds of benches between the park and the street, revising and retelling their histories.  I could hear the needy cries of children.  I was a foreigner: too conspicuous to photograph the locals, too despondent to photograph the kids, and too stubborn to leave.  



I gripped the fence and looked over the baseball field.  I had always wanted to play little-league.  I breathed deep and watched.  Ghosts rounded the bases, turning the in-field white, and disappeared just before home.  The last almost shrugged as I took his picture.