The Way it Feels

By Heather Aquino

 

           The three blocks from my house to Clemson Park are more familiar to me then the reflection I see every morning in the stained, silver trimmed mirror above my bathroom sink. I can describe in great detail the birch trees that line my pathway, and the golden leaves that seem to fall effortlessly upon the tattered shoulders of my brown, corduroy jacket. I can tell you about the house I pass with the shabby, yellow porch swing, adorned with an unkempt heart-shaped pillow, hanging from thin, rusted metal chains, and how that swing always makes me think of my grandmother, and summer, and fresh iced tea.

 

I can tell you which homes are occupied with dogs that possess senses so refined that the resonance of my sneakers upon the concrete walkway at night is enough to disturb their slumber, and invoke a feral frenzy of barking that, for some reason, lulls my senses. I can relay this all back to you meticulously, eidetically; a still frame shot that persists long after the click of the shutter. These images have become well known to me. It is my own self that I am no longer acquainted with.

I began taking these walks a few months ago. At first, I simply walked to feel the raw coldness of the night against my stubbled cheeks and my drained limbs. I had no destination, no purpose. Then, one night, after a few hours of walking, I found myself at the entrance to Clemson Park. I pushed the gate open, and I walked inside, and I stared at the monkey bars with the peeling paint, the swings with the black rubber seats, the red sandbox with the plastic shovel inside. I stared at the instruments of childhood fascination.

And I wept.

The next day I took one of your toys, Addi, and I hope you won’t mind, but I placed it inside my jacket pocket and returned to that park. I sat on the bench for awhile and I thought about you, and I bent down right there in the sandbox, and I dug until the coarseness of wood grated against the back of my hand. The sting in my eyes felt so painful, and I buried your favorite plastic army figurine and walked home.

The next night, I returned to the park, and I buried your wind-up car with the lightening bolt across the driver’s door. The night after that, a stuffed bear a teenaged girl presented to you at a fair after she won the ring toss. And the following night, a blue rubber dinosaur that once accompanied you during baths.

         I buried crayons, children’s bedtime stories, a stuffed rabbit. A toy radio, a glow-in-the-dark sticker set, a tambourine. Action figures of various shapes and sizes, a rubber baseball, a toy truck.

I never go back during the day. I know that they find it.

Sometimes, at night, I sit upon that bench in the park and the pain begins so deep inside me, a raw sensation that starts in my chest, and spreads slowly throughout my body, until I feel as though I cannot move. Sometimes, and this is so difficult for me to admit, but sometimes I just want to give up. Sometimes, I think of those other children, the fortunate ones, and I am so angry at them. Angry at innocent children. I’m not proud of this, Addison. I just want to be honest with you.

One night, after I had returned from the park, my jacket pocket emptied, I crawled into bed beside your mother, and wrapped my arms tightly around her waist as if she might leave too. I kissed the top of her head, the wheat-blond hair the same color as yours, and I stroked her cheek, my fingers dampening with her quiet tears. I held her as she cried a mother’s loss, and I thought about telling her about the park, the sandbox, the bench, but suddenly my throat felt constricted, and all I could do was hold her until her tears dried in splatters and streaks.

Author’s Bio: Heather Aquino received a B.A. in Political Science from William Paterson University in 2004, and a J.D. from St. John’s University in 2008.  She is a practicing attorney in the states of New Jersey and New York.  She currently resides in Somerville, New Jersey, and has recently begun submitting her writing to various journals. 

 

SHORT STORIES | ARCHIVES | SUBMIT | SHORT FICTION CONTEST ABOUT | LINKS | SUBSCRIBE | BLOG