And They Gathered
by CS Crowe
When they tore down the playground behind the gymnasium to make room for a new parking lot and the deep bowl of a holding pond, we, the sons and the daughters of the deacons, did not mind. We played on the slopes until our feet wore the centipede grass down to canyons of rain-slick clay. We wrestled in the grass, until we knew each anthill by name.
When it rained, we could not tell the difference between the pool of tepid water gathering in the pit and the smooth asphalt polished by oily water; both, a perfect mirror of the sky in obsidian.
It was just another day when you ran too fast to see where asphalt ended and water began. Stitches and staples blossomed on a concrete curb. You stared up at cloudy skies while we screamed—not your name, the name of your parents, because in those days, we did not yet belong to ourselves.
That was the last day we were allowed to play behind the gymnasium.
When they tore down the playground in front of the chapel, they promised us it was only temporary, but each time the men in their trucks surrounded the old church, the playground did not return.
In its place, they built a new chain link fence to keep their children in. They built a new wall of white boards, twelve feet high and two-hundred feet long to keep the strangers across the street out. They told us they did this to keep us safe—from ourselves and from each other, but it did not matter because there was nothing to protect.
They did not replace the layer of fine sand with shredded tires. They did not replace the shredded tires with wood chips. They did not replace the wood chips with gravel.
And by the time the deacons gathered in the old chapel to vote on next year's budget, we, the sons and the daughters of the deacons, had grown too old to swing on rusting chains, too old to play hide and seek beneath the aluminum slide, too old to chase a time of our lives that had already passed when our parents turned their backs.
We looked around, first at one another, then at ourselves, and last, at the morning sun shining through the windows. In the distance, dark clouds promised the rain would come, but we would not be there to feel it on our cheeks or taste it on our tongues.
Because there was no room for us here.
CS Crowe
CS Crowe is a storyteller from the Southeastern United States with a love of nature and a passion for writing. He believes stories and poems are about getting there, not being there, and he enjoys those tales that take their time getting to the point.
Comments
I love when short pieces are so emotionally and societally effective, well done!
I love the quiet poetic articulate wistful tone that speaks of loss in a way that also communicates acceptance and maturity. Nicely done, CS. Thank you.