I walked down the short slope of my grandparent’s driveway.
I always looked left. The tall grass and cattails swaying, calling to me.
The field
The field was easy—a blank canvas for a youthful imagination
Hide-and-seek
Idle roaming
Soggy stag magazines in the blackberry bushes
A gang of feral children
Pinecone wars, mudpies
A place for the bored
A place to forget and to be forgot
A place for me
Be home when the street lights come on
The creek
We followed the winding creek along
Skipping through new neighborhoods
Get off my lawn, you fuckers the madman howled
I could always see the trails of my friends who had gone before
We played army, we tagged one another, we hid
Sometimes, I flattened the grass to lie on it and stare at the sky
If I stare at the clouds long enough, it feels like they’re getting closer, and it scares me
The start got longer; the field pushed aside
Graduation
Every time I came back, the field was more cut up
More houses, longer streets
A grid of houses
No kids in the yard. Where are they?
The field is gone