Ode to a Playground


Ode to a Playground

A place from your past or childhood, one that you’re fond of, is destroyed. Write it a memorial.

(A parting speech given at the demolition of the local tennis courts of my youth. If you listen closely, you may hear the heavy excavating equipment powering up to remove what is now community eyesore.)

You will be remembered, my friend.

Though the years have been harsh to preserving your glistening hue and boldness of purpose, my memories of you remain as crisp and invigorating and if we played together yesterday.

I was young… ready to conquer the circuits… a master of the Four Grand Slams in waiting.

You were freshly paved and scored. The luster of your forest green and maroon acrylic resurfacing paint would willing capture and audaciously display the flakes of the iridescent yellow balls as as I pounded ace after ace into your alternating quarters.

We were unstoppable. You offered me such a home court advantage that few opponents could come close to taking me to an extra set. The intimacy of your fenced enclosures were inseparably tied to my pulverizing first serve.

Even the rickety, dilapidated spectator benches seemed to root for only me in close sets.

My victorious youth, I owe to you.

You will be remembered, my friend.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Ode to a Playground.”

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