Behind my eyelids, the lake glimmers in the sunlight;
speckled in the soft breeze, smelling of sweet springtime with dusty echos of summer in the slow shake of the cattails – not yet dry.
The clink of chainlink, of swings, of tetherball;
the smell of cut grass and fresh wood chips.
Across a parking lot and playground,
around a now clean cut track and field,
the memory of monkey bars – rusted and strong; so tall and sturdy – in the midst of waist high dry grass
and a Donkey named Jack.
In between, the roof sags like it always has and the hexagonal corners lead to doors, to drinking fountains, to hallways, and memories…
of songs sung on Fridays, and lines in which we patiently wait.
And even 32 years ago the ceilings seemed low – the carpet a 70s brown, the walls a yellow that whispered of smokers,
but smelled like school.
Behind my eyelids the lake and paths are empty,
save for me
standing on the edge
– unsure –
of whether it is knocking, or I should, whether to turn around –
or which direction is home.