The Potential of a Day

Chapter 6: Lingering

Lingering

          Despite having finished my conversation with Ms. Ace, I find myself lingering at the old school building. No longer trying to get in, just…lingering. Eventually, I leave the front doors where I was hovering, and move to the playground. Something about it just seems so deeply wrong; a playground without any children swinging on the swings, scaling the monkey bars, teetering on the seesaw. Lonely.

          Wanting to fill it, if only a little, I seat myself on one of the black-rubber swings. The chains, rusted with time, creak as I sit; I think they were the same ones as when I went here. The chains scream, as if to remind me I’m not meant to be here; this isn’t my haven anymore, not my anything. I don’t know why I’m here.

          Perhaps the haunting, squealing sound the chains let out are the product of age, or perhaps, they simply did not expect my weight; the weight of anything more than a fifth grader. And maybe nothing more than a fifth grader was ever meant to swing on this swing. Maybe, the toys of children, were meant for children, and never anything more. There is no one around to judge me, yet if there were, they would wonder why a sixteen year old is swinging in a grade school’s play set. Because after a certain age, it is seen as improper to return to the ease of childhood. People are expected to move on, grow up, and face ‘the real world’. Why? Why can’t I just stay here on this swing, pretending to be child who has never faced heartbreak? What’s wrong, with trying to avoid the pain? There isn’t anything wrong, with just wanting to be a child once more.

          I think perhaps I do know why I’m here.

          Sitting here, swinging only softly, I realize that what I said to Ms. Ace, was in fact the truth. Nostalgia. This place holds something for me, memories. Memories of a time when things were simple, and I never thought it even a possibility that I would ever lose my other half. It isn’t simply that it was before Sephie’s death; I wouldn’t need a play set for that. No, it’s something farther back than that. From a time when there was no pressure to be anything but a dreamer. When there was actually a vibrant hope, an expectation even, that your life would turn out better than alright. A time, when the concept of happiness, didn’t sound like a lie.

          Lingering.

          I am lingering here, in this alcove of happiness, in a wall of pain. I cannot stay. That’s the thing about lingering; you try to stay, knowing you can’t. You hover, in places you aren’t meant to be, but where you wish to remain.

          Lingering.

          That is why I am here. Because my subconscious knew, that if there were any lingering scraps of desire to live littered about my mind, I could find them here. There is peace and freedom and love and happiness here. There is no desire to live; because there wasn’t ever the awareness of any desire to die. I thought this place was peace, and if there was any of that left inside of me, I could bring it into focus here.

          The park is cast in shadow, the sun hidden behind a cloud, or perhaps behind the trees at my back. Those trees scarred me as a child, I always imagined being dragged off my swing and into the shadowy woods by some unknown monster. Who would have expected, that that monster would have always been living in the depths of my own mind.

          My cell phone rings in my pocket.

          “Hello?” I say, picking up.

          “Hey Lily, it’s Abby.  

          “What’s up?”

          “I just wanted to remind you I’ll be around to pick you up in about half an hour, so make sure you’re ready by then.”

          I hadn’t even been keeping an eye on the time. To think three hours have gone by is simply absurd. I glance at my watch: three-twenty-seven. How strange. “Alright, I’ll be ready,” I stand up off my swing, “oh, by the way Abby, what are you gonna wear?”

          “A dress,” she shrugs, as if it is of no concern. Well at least I got it right. Apparently, even though I’ve never been to one, I know appropriate festival wear.

          “Should I bring money?”

          “Well duh. It’s a festival; there’ll be vendors and stuff. It’ll be so much fun,” for a moment, Abby prattles on about how much fun we’ll have. Personally, my goal isn’t fun, but deliverance. After a moment of simply letting her speak, I whisper, in a very small voice, “thank you, Abby.”

          “What did you say?”

          “Thank you.”

          “For what?”

          “For inviting me to this.”

          “Uh…no problem.”

          I take a step back, crashing into the swing, and sending it chattering again, “where are you?” Abby questions on the other end of the line; apparently she heard the strange clatter.

          “Um…I’m sort of in a grade school playground.”

          “Why…?”

          “I’m not…really sure.”

          Abby laughs, apparently at the joke she’s just about to make; she thinks herself a riot, “well if you’re looking for small children to prey on, it’s the wrong season. You won’t find anything there.”

          “Though I suppose you’re right, I’m not looking for little kids.”

          “Then what are you looking for, Lily?”

          “I suppose I’m looking for myself.”

          Abby’s voice grows very quiet, sad almost, “you won’t find that there, either, Lily.”

          “I suppose you’re right.”

          “See you at four, Lily,” Abby sighs, to which I respond, “see you then.”

          I end the call, slipping my phone back into my shirt pocket. And with that, I step away from the vacant park.

          And in the end, that’s all it is. Just an empty playground.

          I won’t find anything here.