I’d walk to get somewhere. I’d walk to reach a destination. I’d walk out of necessity. I’d never walk to simply, walk. Until Covid-19, walking was just another mode of transport. But when the pandemic kicked in, it swept my legs out from under me. It confined me to the seated position. I’d sit for over 12hrs a day. I’d spend hours sitting and working. Then spend hours sitting and gaming. Every day was like this. Months went by, my flesh became pastier, my muscles atrophied. My hip flexers grew tighter as I became half man half Herman Miller. Stay home, protect the NHS, save lives, become depressed. At some point during the Winter of 2020 I decided to get up and go for a walk. Where would I go? Anywhere. Nowhere. Just walk.

London is technically a forest. It has a lot of greenery and a lot of parks. I was lucky enough to live close-by to a park in Southwark aptly named, Southwark Park. It’s not as famous as the other parks of London. It’s no Hyde Park or Richmond Park. But it didn’t need to be. In the midst of the pandemic I’d walk around Southwark Park nearly every day. Unexpectedly, it became one of the few enjoyable moments of my socially distanced life. Walking aimlessly around trees and grass is pure joy, who knew?

There was a low point of 2021 where I had a lot of time on my hands. I’d spend hours in Southwark Park, not really doing anything in particular. Not really doing anything at all. Between bouts of walking I’d sit on a bench and watch leaves fall from trees. I’d watch the grass sway in the breeze. I’d get lost deep in thought. Too much thinking and too much pondering. It left me feeling hollow. Serene, but sad. Idle hands are the devil’s playthings, and my pandemic lifestyle was very idle indeed.

A small section of Southwark Park shares a border with the Albin Memorial Garden. It’s just off the beaten path, separated by a thin metal railing. If you wander off the beaten path and pause for a moment, you can see graves beyond this railing. Lost loved ones lined up in little rows. You can make out deflating balloons and wilting flowers. It’s strange to know that someday I’ll be opposite this railing. I find it hard to think of a time when I won’t be around to think. I get a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. Like butterflies, but faster. I back away and stay on my side of the railing, for now.

There are three deaths. The first is when the body ceases to function. The second is when the body is consigned to the grave. The third is that moment, sometime in the future, when your name is spoken for the last time.

- David M. Eagleman, Sum: Forty Tales from the Afterlives

Southwark Park is a much livelier place these days. It’s host to small football matches and picnics. Children’s birthday parties and groups of choir singers. But it’s still the place that helped me through the worst of times. It’s still my friendly giant. It’s a place I’d like to stay after the curtain falls. I’d like to be buried in the memorial garden, next to Southwark Park.

I hope someone leaves me some balloons.

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