on my bike. I will make the rounds today, visiting all of the places that had ever meant something to me and to Nate.
First, I ride to the swimming pool. It is vacant, closed up for the winter. The front gate is chained shut with a massivepadlock. I lean my bike up against the fence and begin to walk around it, peering through the chain links, looking at the empty pool. I’m able to see for the first time the steep slope of the bottom, as it graduates from the shallow to deep end. I stare at the waterslide, and find myself picturing my eight-year-old self perched nervously at the top of the ladder, scared to let go and slide down the curving rivulet of water. I can see twelve-year-old Nate treading water at the bottom, calling for me to just let go and slide.
“Come on, Squirt! You can do it, Cor. Come on, I’ll catch you! Nothing bad will happen, promise!” he had said. He had been so patient, so kind to me back then. The memory prods like a blunt blade.
I settle down on the ground and, facing the swimming area, pull out my sketch pad and pencils. Hastily, I begin to lay out the sweeping expanse of lawn, reimagining the blue-and-white lounge chairs that dot the grass in the summertime, the water rushing down the slide, a gang of teenagers gathered around the diving board, little kids splashing noisily in the shallow end of the pool, and old ladies in swim caps and frilly bathing suits slowly doing doggie-paddle laps. I draw it all. And I add a small girl, myself at the top of the slide, Nate at the bottom, coaxing me to come to him.
When I am finished, I pack my supplies and get back on the bike. Next, I ride to the baseball diamond in a park that is aquarter of a mile from the pool. The park where Nate and I had played freeze tag with a whole crew of kids from the neighborhood. The grass grows tall in this field—it always has—except where a baseball diamond has been cut into it. The stationary plastic bases are anchored into the ground, and the baselines are faded, mostly invisible now. I remember sitting between my parents, squeezed onto the tiny bleachers as we watched Nate play ball with his Little League team. Thermoses of hot chocolate and bags of caramel popcorn were passed between my mom and dad and me, as we cheered for the Lincoln Hawks. Nate had played first base, and when he manned his base, his eyes would scrunch up, and he’d stay crouched like a cat, always at the ready to spring after a ball. I was so proud of him. He used to seem so grown-up and capable.
I quickly sketch a picture of cheering onlookers, the Hawks in their pin-striped uniforms, opponents at bat. Then I pack up again and move away from the baseball field. I head out toward the playground that floats like an island of mulch and plastic and steel in the middle of the sea of grass. I walk through the tangle of swings and monkey bars, give the merry-go-round a shove and watch as it spins and spins. Then I sit down on the tire swing, pushing off the ground with my feet, and lean back as the swing tips and moves jerkily under the uneven weight, then faster and faster. I pump my legs and stand up on the tire, clinging to the chains. They’re creaking and groaning, and I really hope that they aren’t the same chainsthat held up the swing when I was a little kid. The tire swings higher and faster. I feel like I’m flying. The joy and lightness of last night returns. I imagine the white bird is above me, circling in the sky. But something tells me I will never see it again. It was a thing of mystery. And actually, in the light of day, I wonder if it was even real. But I don’t want to dwell on this question. All I know, all that matters is that I saw it and felt its beauty and let that beauty enter me.
As I rock back and forth on the tire swing, I think about when my dad used to take Nate and me to the playground. We’d crowd onto the tire together, begging our dad to push us. Harder. Harder. As we picked up speed, Nate would throw
First, I ride to the swimming pool. It is vacant, closed up for the winter. The front gate is chained shut with a massivepadlock. I lean my bike up against the fence and begin to walk around it, peering through the chain links, looking at the empty pool. I’m able to see for the first time the steep slope of the bottom, as it graduates from the shallow to deep end. I stare at the waterslide, and find myself picturing my eight-year-old self perched nervously at the top of the ladder, scared to let go and slide down the curving rivulet of water. I can see twelve-year-old Nate treading water at the bottom, calling for me to just let go and slide.
“Come on, Squirt! You can do it, Cor. Come on, I’ll catch you! Nothing bad will happen, promise!” he had said. He had been so patient, so kind to me back then. The memory prods like a blunt blade.
I settle down on the ground and, facing the swimming area, pull out my sketch pad and pencils. Hastily, I begin to lay out the sweeping expanse of lawn, reimagining the blue-and-white lounge chairs that dot the grass in the summertime, the water rushing down the slide, a gang of teenagers gathered around the diving board, little kids splashing noisily in the shallow end of the pool, and old ladies in swim caps and frilly bathing suits slowly doing doggie-paddle laps. I draw it all. And I add a small girl, myself at the top of the slide, Nate at the bottom, coaxing me to come to him.
When I am finished, I pack my supplies and get back on the bike. Next, I ride to the baseball diamond in a park that is aquarter of a mile from the pool. The park where Nate and I had played freeze tag with a whole crew of kids from the neighborhood. The grass grows tall in this field—it always has—except where a baseball diamond has been cut into it. The stationary plastic bases are anchored into the ground, and the baselines are faded, mostly invisible now. I remember sitting between my parents, squeezed onto the tiny bleachers as we watched Nate play ball with his Little League team. Thermoses of hot chocolate and bags of caramel popcorn were passed between my mom and dad and me, as we cheered for the Lincoln Hawks. Nate had played first base, and when he manned his base, his eyes would scrunch up, and he’d stay crouched like a cat, always at the ready to spring after a ball. I was so proud of him. He used to seem so grown-up and capable.
I quickly sketch a picture of cheering onlookers, the Hawks in their pin-striped uniforms, opponents at bat. Then I pack up again and move away from the baseball field. I head out toward the playground that floats like an island of mulch and plastic and steel in the middle of the sea of grass. I walk through the tangle of swings and monkey bars, give the merry-go-round a shove and watch as it spins and spins. Then I sit down on the tire swing, pushing off the ground with my feet, and lean back as the swing tips and moves jerkily under the uneven weight, then faster and faster. I pump my legs and stand up on the tire, clinging to the chains. They’re creaking and groaning, and I really hope that they aren’t the same chainsthat held up the swing when I was a little kid. The tire swings higher and faster. I feel like I’m flying. The joy and lightness of last night returns. I imagine the white bird is above me, circling in the sky. But something tells me I will never see it again. It was a thing of mystery. And actually, in the light of day, I wonder if it was even real. But I don’t want to dwell on this question. All I know, all that matters is that I saw it and felt its beauty and let that beauty enter me.
As I rock back and forth on the tire swing, I think about when my dad used to take Nate and me to the playground. We’d crowd onto the tire together, begging our dad to push us. Harder. Harder. As we picked up speed, Nate would throw
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