"My name is Joan," I say.
"So is mine," she laughs.
It's noon.
Sun beating down, relentless.
But her lunch bench is perfect.
shade.
breeze.
water view.
I remark on a bright red bird flashing by.
She says she comes often.
Sees rabbits, chipmunks, squirrels
the ubiquitous geese,
pairs of swans.
She knows Olmsted and his parks.
Here, and in New York and Buffalo
where she lived as a girl.
"Not so many Joans," she says.
"It's so bland."
"Plain," I agree.
But what's in a name?
I google it.
so many Joans!
Joan of Arc
Joan Baez
Joan Halifax
Joan Jett
Joan Cusak
Joan Miro
Joan Rivers, to name a few.
and even,
Jo-an (teahouse), a National Treasure in Inuyama, Aichi Prefecture, Japan.
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