Been a while since I came up with something original, I guess. But I was doing some thinking today — musing, pondering, whatever you call it — and i thought i’d pool some of that together.
When I was little I used to go this park with my grandma. Nothing really fancy, a typical park you’d go to on a fourth of July when it’s steaming hot and old people are barbecuing with with their grandchildren running willy nilly. But I used to go there, under this covered pavillion, and my grandmother and I would dance together like it was a 1940s dance contest. I suppose the memories do seem very old — even sepia-toned, I suppose. After a while, we’d have to stop cuz we were out of breath from the constant laughing. And the sun wouuld shine, and the wind would blow just enough to let you know that sure enough, you got just a little bit too much sun that day.
I went back to that park this weekend for the first time in prolly 10 years. Not much had changed. The pavilion was still there. Everything seemed old and weathered. The deer pen was gone and torn down. The deer had been shot about 12 years previous during the nite by some 20-something with a gun and a need for attention. He got that attention … and 30 years in prison. But I went and I stood in the Pavilion — the wind blowing noticably stronger than when I was little — and watched the empty air, the gray winter leaves that blew about, the orange sand, the half-filled pool lined with leaves, broken cement, and soaking in stagnant water. Grandma wasn’t there this time; the dancing was, however — tho it was to a silent band with unseen dancesteps. But it was there. I could feel it. I think the dancing will always be there, even after after I’m gone.
But it made me realize that time really doesn’t care much what happens. It has its own agenda with tasks it has to perform. The weathered pavillion collects leaves and memories that time provides. Countless Easters and Thanksgivings — when the weather was warm enough for kids to play for hours — are spent at this park. And every 10 years or so, some restless boy wanders back and thinks “my god, I’m getting old and forgetful. So much is the same — in fact, I seem to be the one who has changed the most.”