Survival seemed the only curriculum as far as my young boy’s brain could tell.
Ellison’s red bricks, yellow/green floors were my own hellscape, no escaping the addition, or multiplication of small angry fists into soft stomach, chubby cheek.
The respite of recess, I recall the lowing of unseen cows, the smell of manure on a breeze, wafting past the swingset.
Milk cartons, emptied, filled again with earth and seed, milkweed.
Butterflies, adult lies. blackened eyes.
Grasshoppers humming, buzzing, the plink and plop of gravel-rocks tossed one at a time into the storm drain.
This bench wasn't here 40 years ago, yet the ghosts of my childhood find my lap nonetheless.
As my own children now swing, climb or otherwise enjoy the equipment, I remain haunted by memories of people lost to me for what feels like centuries.
They unload their baggage (and my own) at my feet.