When I came to the familiar stop, what I first noticed was the street sign. Properly large and easy to read, hanging from a large long pole hovering over the middle of the intersection.
Then there was a murmur of memory.
***
The playground at my elementary school was one of my favorites. There was a tire swing, horizontally mounted, large enough to fit 3 kids comfortably. There were giant cement tubes, half buried in sand, for running through or climbing on. There this tire so large you could rest in the inside gap. You know, the part that fits over a wheel's rim? Climbing it was irresistible to all but those who were afraid of heights.
I hadn't been in a while. The tube becoming home to broken glass and graffiti. Besides, I was getting too old for playgrounds.
But it was summer and daylight, so a walk with the siblings to a decaying childhood treasure would surely be a fitting way to close a chapter of my youth.
Past the swimming pool, up the dirt path and
Nothing.
Well, the field and the backstop for kickball were still there, and the asphalt with the hopscotch and foursquare outlines, and the empty poles for tether ball, and the – are they also called backstops? – brown monoliths perfect for practicing your forehand, but no playground. Just an empty space.
A piece of my childhood razed without warning.
***
The lights aren't yet functional, the signals covered in cardboard and burlap. I'm used to them now, and may even be prepared for when the stop sign goes missing and the light is green. But for an instant, it was like the old schoolyard playground. A part of my past, a piece of me, irrevocably lost.
A deep breath, a sigh, and a small smile. I'd learned to grieve such losses more compactly.
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