Childhood Memories

to the right of my house lives a family with two small children—a boy and a girl. sometimes i’ll hear them before i see them, running ahead of their mother, racing to see who can reach the front gate first. from my window, i can see them when they leave in the morning for school: tiny backpacks on tiny shoulders carrying tiny burdens all the way to first grade. one day, after Winter tore down our street and turned the grey cobblestone smooth and white, i saw them sliding around on the ice outside their front door while they waited for their mother to grab her coat or her coffee or whatever it was. they were floating, giggling, dancing, gliding. all in one moment; a patch of ice, a playground.

to the left of my house is a bilingual preschool. for the first few days i spent living between these red shutters, i wondered why i saw so many parents walk into the tiny blue building (if you’d blink you’d miss it) and return with children at their side, faces aglow with excitement at the reunion with their loved ones; it must feel like ages have gone by since they dropped them off that morning. little teeth that can’t hold themselves inside their little mouths. once i lost a tooth in kindergarten, and my teacher gave me a plastic purple treasure chest to keep it safe until i got home. i was so proud, i showed all of my friends, i told my mom, i didn’t let the plastic purple treasure chest out of my sight. and then the next week i lost another one.

directly across the street there’s this big elementary school. by now i think i understand the pick-up and drop off times. each day at around 3:30 pm, the parents start to gather, catching up about Parenting and Careers and Politics and Did You Hear What Jane Did Last Night? It Was Just The Cutest! and everyday at around 4 pm a rainbow assortment of winter coats and rain-boots and fuzzy hats comes strolling out of the building and on to the playground in a single file line. today, i saw a group of teenagers sitting on the same playground, and i’m not quite sure what they were doing but i’m not quite sure i would call it playing? i guess it depends on what you think playing looks like. i see a lot of it from up here.

i’ve been trying to reach my inner child, but i keep getting sent to voicemail -- maybe she thinks it’s a wrong number; i have kept her at quite a distance for quite some time. the thing that no one tells you about getting older is that you don’t realize it until you’re there. just the other day i was so excited for my 21st birthday in two years, and today i came to realize it’s suddenly in two weeks. the clock ticks and tocks on, without regard for anyone but itself. i can’t make it stop. but i can choose to play.

i can choose the strawberry wine, that tastes like lollipops and dancing with my friends, over the liquor that reminds me of time wasted on an idea of Older that doesn’t exist. i can choose the cowboy hat and i can choose the pillow pet and i can choose the arts and crafts. the playground is in your head.

—maddie wasson