Rigmarole
It’s raining yet again. I have a view of a trampoline from where I sit and it’s shining, heavy with water. The kids that used to play on it are all gone. They are still here of course, as young adolescents, but their sense of enjoyment in things like wet trampolines is gone.
I haven’t seen them from my window for almost a year now. Their play equipment is all that’s left of them I suppose you could say. I knew it was coming. Their final days of play that year ago were too boisterous, too emphatic. They played themselves out like a star, burning biggest and brightest at the end.
That’s why they’ve gone. The star like composition of youth is all burned out, and become that intense discovery of something else. A burgeoning adulthood that at first rejects, then clumsily retraces that fitful and effortless youth.
I wonder if they’ll remember my face as I watched them. I used to play them classical music, at first to repel, but eventually entertain them as they jumped.
Their father certainly seemed to appreciate the change in pace. I guess my journey will have to continue on without them at present. It’s looking cloudy in the long run.
Best get a hold of that umbrella - replace the nylon, before the acid rain starts.
