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.