By Michael R. Young
An old house decomposes to my left. On my right, a Victorian schoolhouse stands in proud obsolescence, its arched stone doorway ascended to by grand stone steps. The silent ghosts of bygone children clamber upward toward silent school bells, scowling hall monitors and musty rooms. Blackboard erasures have left their chalky marks, pounded on stoic brick walls. The halcyon days of the three “R’s” and recess have given way to short term memory loss. But I still remember Dotty Evan’s blonde braids, blue tipped, as she sat at the desk in front of me. Her hair just barely reached the inkwell in my graffiti-carved, flip-top, oaken writing desktop.
Where is she now, my grade school heartthrob, the hop scotching girls and the boys of spring baseball? Where are we all and soon to be – still above or beneath the newly greening grass?
We were the bowing daffodils, the persistent crocus.
Now, what feeds them?
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