Come back...Come back and Play
Posted: Sunday, May 16, 2010
by Richard Radtke
http://www.cottagebythelane.com
The sun shined orange in the evening sky, below it the Old Man was walking down a forgotten country road. The old man paused. He pulled from the hip pocket of his worn coveralls an old soiled handkerchief. With it he wiped away the sweat that beaded his brow, and trickled down the furrows of his wind worn face and fell stingingly into his eyes. Pushing the handkerchief back into the pocket, he looked up into the clear, cloudless sky, wincing when the blazing disk of the sun washed across his glance. He sighed, and once more looked toward his goal that lay just ahead.
With an old man's step, he shuffled on ahead. Down the road the old school house sat silent in an open field, neglected now as it decayed.
As he approached it, the Old Man thought, "Like me it sits, lonesome and alone, each day, following each day."
He pulled up old memories from his youth, the picture of the old schoolhouse, its newly painted sides gleaming in the warm morning sun, the smell of the close cropped grass and the neat path that lead by the tall flagpole to the door. He walked, and thought of those long ago days, and arrived before he knew he was there. For a few moments he stopped and just stared.
The school house of his childhood was gone, a strange place stood there. From its timeworn sides the paint hung peeled and cracked with age. Squirrels scurried and dashed along the broken roof, disappearing inside. The once neat path leading up to the door was overgrown with weeds, growing wild and tall. Of the old flag pole that once proudly soared, nothing remained but a stump, nothing more. The Old Man saw that the steps leading up to door were still there, though now they sagged with age. As he stood there staring, the wind whistled by and in passing slammed the creaking old school door in its frame, like the children did so long, long before. He shuffled forward, and with a careful gait climbed the stairs, slowly, hesitantly, as if afraid to disturb the memories living there.
Just inside was the tiny hall, with the coat hooks dully gleaming from the wall. A few steps more and he was in the classroom that stretched, long and narrow. He gazed upon the old classroom, it was coated now with the dust of years, sprinkled with leaves placed with care, by the breath of a breeze, lightly blowing in there. The glow from the now setting sun spilled in through the broken roof. The Old Man squinted, looking for the children that once were, but there was no one there. Leafy creepers trailed down the crumbling walls, weeds thrust up through the rotted floor. The voices said, "The children are gone, here no more."
The old chalkboard hung askew, upon it no writing for a child to view. The desks, he remembered when they were bright and new, how they gleamed and sat in neat rows, now they lay scattered and rusting, some collapsed upon the floor. In his head the voices went on, "There is no who one cares, since no one comes here anymore." The windows through which, in his school hood days, he'd watched the new fallen snow coat the ground, and dreamed of days to soon gone, are broken now and some completely gone. He gazed out, looked upon the playground where the children used to play, where now the grass grew tall. He slowly turned away. With that shuffling gait he made his back out the door, down the steps, and trudged upon the ground he'd walked those many years before.
Through the tall grass and weeds that grew upon the deserted playground he made his way, listening to the rusted chains of the swings rattle and clink in the gentle wind. The voices once more spoke, "They are begging for a child to come and once more play." He wandered to the old slide, and to himself he spoke, "The old slide is abandoned, forlorn and I can almost feel it crying, since the children no longer come to play. The merry go round no longer spins, its once bright colors now muted and gray, upon it no children play."
He made his way to the Jungle Gym, stood looking and thought, "The old jungle gym is falling apart, I remember, long ago we boys used it, climbing it over, and over, each day. We hung by our knees from its pipe built heights, and sometimes just sat and watched the other children at play. Over there, somewhere buried out in the weeds there sits the hopscotch place. Its lines and numbers probably long since blown away." In the glory of the setting sun, the Old Man stood motionless and mute, the voices said loud and clear, "Come on Old Man, Its time to join us and play."
The Old Man grinned and nodded,
"Sit for a spell", The voice went on.
The grass and weeds stand tall in the setting sun. The wind, it dances by at play. But the joyful noise of children, once at home here is gone. That time is past, and the past goes away. Loneliness rules this place, this day
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Top-level comments on this article: (2 total)Richard,
You have such a way of bringing your stories to life. It is a pleasure to read, as I can picture the scene in my minds eye. Thank you for another fantastic article.Thank you for your wonderful comments.
This is beautifully evocative, but so sad, Richard, it makes me ache.It was meant to be sad when I wrote it, I am glad I managed to get that theme across. But I must also say that whatever one gets out of a story is correct for them, so while I may have intended it to be sad, it may or may not evoke that feeling from all who read it. Whatever feeling or emotion it evokes for them is, in fact, correct for them. but it is always nice to hear when what you were shooting for has found its mark. Thank you for the observation.
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