The Park Where I Grew Up

by Krista Wiese

 

I am trapped beside The Moms—

mine and the one she calls her friend

though the grating tones 

of their weekly conversations say otherwise.

Today’s chatting grounds: the park where

I spent my childhood.  Now,

I sit with homework on my lap, pretending

to enjoy the essay I’m reading and

anything but intrigued by the 

probiotic, essential oil, meal-prep 

banter beside me. 

 

Some distance away, 

The Kids (Adam & Andrew) send Frisbees

hurtling through the sky where once, 

I flew kites and watched fireworks

explode in July. Now there is no sky

above my head—only the wasp nest

dangling from the ceiling of the picnic shelter

and the cobwebs crowding my thoughts

and other things that loom always 

above me. The Moms are not afraid

of the wasps like I am;

they battle on.

 

If I close my eyes, 

all banter blurs into one beige monotone, 

interrupted only by boyish shouts 

and the clamor of the birthday gathering

at the picnic table too close:

that happily dissonant song and

plastic forks against soft cake

and paper plates. As The Birthday Girl 

squeals, I open my eyes. 

Cheery cardigans and stale old clogs

await my contribution 

to the monotone as though

I’ve been waiting my turn

all this time.