In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Ode to a Playground.”
This is so funny because my brother and I were just discussing our childhood home. Our parents sold it about 15 years ago and moved on to greener pastures, but my brother decided to pull it up on google maps a few days ago and sent me the link. It looks strange to have unfamiliar cars parked in the driveway, to see the yard and landscaping my father cared for meticulously appear a bit unkempt, but more than anything it felt strange that it wasn’t my home anymore. I lived there for over 20 years. Since I was an infant. My brother came home from the hospital to that house. I took my first steps there. Learned to read. Lost my first tooth.
Staring at the picture, I looked wistfully at the tress standing tall from the backyard, towering regally over the roof. The same trees I played hide and go seek behind, that my dad used to hang hammocks and tents between so we could play make believe games. The same trees my mom used to mark first base when we she taught us how to play baseball. I see the porch where I said goodbye to the first boy I ever loved. The driveway my brother sped into triumphantly after he got his driver’s license. The puppy that found her way to our front door and decided we were her family. So many memories. The happy ones more than make up for the sad.
Whomever is living there now, I hope they have children. And I hope that every once and a while, they put the video games and tablets down and venture outside into the sun and fresh air and play games, the same old-fashioned ones we used to play.