The other day I sat on the ground. A paved path in the middle of a park. I pressed my palm to the hot black tarmac in an effort to stand, and felt the pressure of embedded pebbles and sun's heated black road on my hand. The sensation reminded me of elementary school, picking myself off the tarmac for a bell signaling the end of a recess: painting the ground with the heads of dandelions, or watching the boys play four-square with a red (or yellow) rubber ball.
The feeling, fleeting, flashed and as I now stood, I recalled with amazement how quickly little reminders of age can weave in and around conscious boarders. Hide under everyday rubble, then hit a memory and watch its short film.
I sat back down on the path and hoped for more of my childhood to return.
