In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Ode to a Playground.”
A place from your past or childhood, one that you’re fond of, is destroyed. Write it a memorial.
If it was my home, or the park opposite, I would be sad. Otherwise, nothing else really matters. Much has changed, but I haven’t taken notice.
As time passes, the buildings, neighbors, food stalls, pets, and roads keep changing. I have lived here all my life, and I have never seen this place (exactly this way, with three blooms on the bushes and the leaves strewn just so) before. Everything is old, but with the wind everything is made new.
I find it harder to catch the present than the past. If I was to write a memorial, it would be to the moment just passed, whose air I am still exhaling, whose keyboard-touch still lingers on my fingertips.