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.