Elementary School

This was my ele­men­tary school. The Catholic insti­tu­tion I attended dur­ing the first few years of mov­ing here. Where I used to offer best-friend sta­tus for a mouth­ful of Big League Chew. Old, famil­iar four-square courts are still painted on, unmoved. The T-ball poles are rusted out and miss­ing their teth­ers. Countless feet jump­ing, run­ning, skip­ping dur­ing recess have caused the pave­ment to warp and crack. Even the old porta­bles are any­thing but, their famil­iar beige tones still inhab­it­ing the back of the school, built out of con­crete and plas­tic foam when the town was bud­ding, and the class­rooms couldn’t han­dle all the stu­dents. Walking up the wooden stairs, I bet they even have the same groan­ing creaks.

The play­ground set in the field has changed, likely a result of the arsenic scare (used to pre­serve wood) a few years back. This is where I first heard the word “fuck”, where I learned how to make snake­skin sand­balls. The stairs are made of minia­ture steps, the dwar­ven height com­pletely awk­ward for those with grown legs. I hit my head on the swing­ing rings if I’m not care­ful, and I remem­ber being unable to even jump to reach them. The rich blue paint has almost all worn off, most likely not from my hands, but from those in the last 15 years after me.

I won­der if they have the same mem­o­ries that I do.