Just before they reached the end of Main Street, her mother disrupted the consistency by turning right onto a narrower street.
“Mom, why are we going down Remsen?” Emma asked, confused why her mother would take her towards Hempstead.
“You’ll see.”
Both Emma and her mother walked slower, paying careful attention to the un-leveled sidewalk, her mother’s kitten heels clicking with each step. It was cracked and protruded, unlike the even sidewalks throughout Garden City. It was strange to think that her mother would willingly take Emma in this direction. Emma was always scolded as a child if she wandered too far away from the center of town. Hempstead was no place for a young girl to be walking by herself, at least, that’s what the women of Garden City believed. Although their town was considered one of the most prestigious of New York, it was piggybacked to Hempstead, which contained some of the poorest people in the area. One street was lined with newly built city lamps and flowerpots, and literally the next consisted of metal link fences and littered garbage.
As they walked further down the street, they approach a park playground.
“Remember this place Emma?” Her mother said with clear hope and excitement.
Emma didn’t recall the location. It looked like any other generic playground with a set of swings, monkey bars, and a yellow slide. Her mother slumped her shoulders, realizing that Emma had not made a connection.
"I used to take you here all the time when you were little. Remember? We would go before your soccer games.”
There was nothing of a playground in Emma’s memory. But, she did remember always walking with her grandfather to the Saturday morning games, kicking at the dandelions to ease her childish nerves. And the morning when he made her feel special. Her grandfather was helping her tie her shoelaces before her game. She was seven. It was morning, and the air still had a damp chill to it, the sun was not at its peak. The dewdrops on the grass tickled her feet as she walked onto the field, holding her grandfather’s hand. She jumped to the ground and stuck her legs out in front of her, wiggling her untied cleats. They were cherry red. Her mother wanted her to get the black, like the rest of the girls. Her grandfather knelt down before her and began his ritual. He would slap the soles of her feet, to make sure they were on nice and tight, he would say. She giggled when he would do that. But this day, as he meticulously tied her laces into bows, he stopped himself. Gripping her ankles with a tightness she had never experienced him to have before, he looked up into her eyes.
“No one will ever understand you like I do.” He said, only for her to hear. “Do you know that?”
She nodded, slow and deliberate.

Her mother took her hand and led her towards the swings. They rocked in silence. Emma grasped her left hand, the coolness of the watch soothing her. A mixture from the boys dribbling a basketball further down the street, and the rustle of leaves against the mulch in the playground was the only sounds to be heard from where she and her mother sat. But then Emma saw him. Actually, she felt his gaze before she saw him. A man was across the street, walking by the playground. He glanced at Emma, and she sensed a connection immediately. Something familiar jarred her senses. It was the way he carried himself. He walked with importance. He wore navy corduroys and a black down vest, with a dark turtleneck underneath. His hair was longer but it had the same thickness, the same ashy gray color.
“It’s him,” Emma whispered.
“Mother,” Emma tugged on her mother’s shirtsleeve, pointing in the man’s direction. “Don’t you see? He recognizes me?”
“What are you talking about?” Her mother said.
“Just look. He’s watching me.”
“Emma, he’s homeless,” her mother hissed.
“But—“
“Emma, stop. Don’t draw attention to yourself. He’s looking only because you keep looking at him.”
“No mother, I swear…” Emma trailed off, knowing her mother would never understand.