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Because We Could

Kathryn Leetch

    I sit on the warm, plastic bench, reflecting on the time I used to spend here. I tumble back through the years. The paint on the aging plastic bench, once a brilliant yellow, has now faded almost completely. I shed my shoes, just like I used to do. I look down at my feet as I stir the mulch, feeling the wooden pieces slipping between my toes. The mulch replaces what used to be brown rocks when I played here. I liked the rocks, I longed for the rocks. A warm breeze ruffles my hair as I close my eyes and I remember the good times I had at Hot Tot Park in St. Peters. I’m five-years old again, surprised at how easy it is to slip back in time. I picture my little self scampering around with my friends. Not tall enough for the monkey bars, I go back to the blue slide. My favorite. My skin tingles as I remember how the plastic, baked by the hot summer sun, burned me on those long-ago days. I smile and remember how a little burn wasn’t going to stop me from going down the best slide in the world. I loved going to the park. No worries. No stress. Simpler times. I didn’t have to worry about homework assignments, papers, tests, work, boys. OK. I may have worried about boys, but surely not like I do now. Sitting on this warm bench, I think about my life, how far I have come, and what I am now. So much began in this place.
    I find myself wondering, thinking, reminiscing. Where has the time gone? Just yesterday, it seems, I was running around this place—not caring, just playing. Playing and running so hard; sweat running down my forehead and off the tip of my nose; cheeks as red as my hair; big smiles, glowing blue eyes, and loud laughs.
    I see myself standing at the top of the curved and twisted blue slide. I would wave to my mom who used to wait anxiously for my arrival at the bottom. I smile that same big smile. I wanted to show my mom how big I was, how I could go down a slide all by myself. I wonder if she’d be proud to see the places I’ve been to now. Gripping the green bar tightly, I sit myself down on the bright blue plastic. I remember the feeling of my heart racing, beating so fast. My palms sweat. My smile broadens. The thrill of rushing down the big slide, knowing that my mom is at the bottom with open arms, ready to catch me. I remember thinking how proud she must be. 1...2...3...Go! I can see myself starting to glide down the slide, almost in slow motion. Then as I begin to pick up speed, so do my memories. Screaming playfully, I open my mouth, as if trying to catch the air that’s passing by, flying through my hair. I see my mom, and I know she’ll be there to catch me. I reach the end and pop out quickly. My mom, quick on her feet, catches me and swirls me around in a million circles. We both shout in laughter.
    I find myself longing for this time of certainty and confidence in my mother that has since faded. I love my mom. I love the way she made me feel when I was young. I grip the bench tight, thinking about how different life is now. Would she be there when I came down a slide now? Is she as proud of me, now, as she was then? She was there when I was five. She was there when I was ten. She barely made it to my fifteenth year. Twenty now, I’m afraid of falling still, but she is no longer there to catch me.
    I look around the park, wondering where the time has gone, remembering Hot Tot Park like it was yesterday. I wish so bad that I could go back to being five again; playing, and being silly because I could. I want to find my inner child. I want a place to belong again. When you’re little, everyone gets along. No big break ups. No fights between friends that can end the everlasting bond that is promised in the beginning. No arguments with parents that have any real meaning. All you have to worry about is what your friend said the other day, or when your crush threw a pencil at you, but couldn’t figure out why. We look back, and we know why. It’s because he could.
    I close my eyes again, breathe a deep breath, take myself back to when I was five. My mom stands me back on my feet after she gives me a big kiss on the forehead. I smile up at her, feeling the heat of the sun on my face. I giggle, and run toward the swings. They’re my second favorite. The idea of being in the air with nothing more than a rubber seat between me and bruised and broken bones amazed me. I couldn’t pump my legs, so my dad was always good at helping me get as high as possible. The “Underdog” was my dad’s specialty. He pushed me until I was high enough, and once I was, he would push one last time, and then run underneath me before I swung back again. He would count down, too, so I knew when it was coming. 1...2...3... Go! I smile as I remember how nervous I would get. I always thought I was going to hit him on my way back. My dad is a tall guy, so it was risky business. I can still hear him counting down until the moment came: The “Underdog.” I can still feel the beat of my heart quickening in pace; the smile on both of our faces after I saw him in front of me again. My dad is so cool.
    When my parents were together, life was perfect. We spent so much time together; doing all kinds of things. We would go to the park, or the movies, or out to eat, or tons of other things. Even going to the store with my mom was an adventure. Where did those times go? Why did they have to get a divorce and ruin everything? Was it something I did? Was I too much of a burden on them? I could have gone down the slide without her help. I could have learned how to pump my legs so they could sit together instead of helping me. Now I know why. It was because they could.
    When I was little, my brother was my best friend. He is three years older than me, so we were close. I used to hang out with him and his friends instead of my own. He would try to do the “Underdog” too, but he wasn’t big enough yet. He would ask me to race him down the slides, even though he knew he was always going to win. He let me win sometimes, but the majority of wins went to him. Whenever we went to the park, I would get jealous of him because he could reach the monkey bars, and swing on his own. He could run faster than me. He could hide better than me. I still look up to my big brother. He didn’t mind when I tagged along with him and his friends, though he claimed he did at the time. We both knew that our bond as brother and sister was different from most, and we liked that. My big brother is so awesome.
    I sit here on this bench that wishes it was still bright yellow like it used to be. With the mulch underneath my feet, I gaze across the park. I look at the big blue slide, the green monkey bars that I could probably reach now without much effort, the swing set reduced to a single swing. I look back on all of the times I had at Hot Tot Park- and I wish I could get them all back. I wish I could go back to simpler times. Not a care in the world.
    I look at my little seven year old sister sitting next to me. She wonders why I am so content sitting here, looking at this run-down old park. We could be doing so many other things, like shopping, or riding bikes. She may be seven, but she acts like she’s fifteen. She loves going to the park, though, loves it a lot. The parks she goes to are much different than Hot Tot Park. These parks have fancy names, big bright green and red slides, swing sets with ten swings, hop scotch games, and instead of brown rocks, or even mulch, she gets rubber flooring decorated with many different colors. The familiar monkey bars are much more than just a straight set of bars at her park. They are windy and twisty and curvy, making it much more challenging. I would have given anything for that kind of a park when I was her age. No wonder she’s bored at Hot Tot.
    I look at my not-so-little sister, and remember when I was her age. All she cares about is her boyfriend of the week, or her spelling test coming up. Spelling tests. Do you remember those? I was so good at them. Spelling words like “cat” and “pencil”, not “hemoglobin” or “thrombocytes.” Simple words. Basic words. She sits next to me, adjusting her pink cotton skirt, looks up at me and smiles. I know that smile. Once, it appeared on my face. Somewhere deep within me, I know it’s still there. The soft wind blows her hair, her tan skin feels the sun, and she grabs my hand.
    “Sis?” she says softly, “What are you thinkin’ about?”
    “Oh, just about when I was your age and how fun life was.”
    She goes on to ask why I think life isn’t fun after a certain point, why I can’t make it fun. She may be seven, but she asks good questions. She makes me stop and think. Why? She’s right. Why can’t life be fun after the age of five or six? We have to make life what we want it to be, and if we are okay with disappointing those we love, then that’s okay. If we want to right our wrongs, then we have to put forth the effort to do so. Our life is what we make it, and it’s up to us to enjoy it while we can.
    I remember the smells of the park, and I can smell the same scent just by touching my sister’s hand. Dirty, dusty, dry but sweaty. The smells of childhood return as I look at my sister, touch her hand, and pat her on the back. The sweat on her back makes her shirt stick, and on her forehead, makes her hair wet.
    A ladybug lands on my knee, and I pause. My sister goes to flick it off, but I quickly pull her finger away. The little creature takes tiny steps, wandering, clueless, with no destination in mind. Seeing the ladybug reminds me of being little again myself. I had no real direction or destination in life, not to my knowledge anyway. I didn’t know which way to go, and the only way I got anywhere was if someone picked me up and took me there. I let the ladybug crawl onto my finger, and I hear my sister gasp in awe. Her breath escapes her, and her mouth drops open. I lift up the bug, and help it fly away gracefully, much as I have found myself doing lately. I’ve learned the art of taking little steps; I’ve found the grace that allows me to do little things on my own. Soon enough I will fly away with my newfound strength. Like a ladybug.
    We decide that we should go because it is starting to get late. My sister is off and running as soon as she stands up. She has the energy and liveliness that I once had. She runs because she can. I stop and take a second to say goodbye. I do this because I can. Goodbye to Hot Tot Park. Goodbye to the swings and the slide that used to be. Goodbye to the monkey bars I continue to hate. Goodbye to the mulch that was once rocks. Goodbye to the half-yellow plastic bench. Goodbye to the sweaty, dusty, dirty park. Goodbye to childhood. I wish I could stay longer.
    I am here because I can be.
    I have memories because I could.
    I am moving on because I can.

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