I could see the reflection of a forgotten party decoration, twirling in the wind, carelessly content with being taped to the roof of our neighbor’s house. The window itself began a vibrant orange mix, gradually fading into an array of color with the casted shadows that now covered the patches of grass in our backyard. There was actually only one large patch of luscious green covering, since most of the yard remained dry with weeds, but it stood out against the rest as a reminder of what could be. The tables were set against the wall, and chairs stacked on top of each other, and no one was coming for months onward. I could hear the crickets humming their hymn, and the grasses were slowly dancing to the multitude of sounds that echoed throughout. There were occasional rumbles from the distant highway, and the buzz of bees eager to pollinate. I myself was sitting in a criss-cross-applesauce style on the brick uplifted panel of cement that spanned the length of the grass. My neighbors were coming home from work now, but my mom wasn’t for a few more days…

The TV urged me to come inside and give it a watch, and waste away hours of potential. The potential to write, to explore, to appreciate, the potential to draw, to hide, to create. But even those things seemed unachievable as the voices grew louder and more imminent, demanding something different. I began acting on the idea of walking to the park, as I usually contend to do, fixing my hair and face, grabbing water and my medication. The longer I visualized myself on the basketball court reading a book or listening to music, and the breeze that would lure away all other individuals seeking the same wholesome experience, the faster I hurried throughout my house eagerly awaiting the jolt of independence that was the product of such wishful thinking.

I picked up my headphones that had fallen from under my bed, cussing loudly as I had hit my hand hard against what felt like a plastic box. I immediately squeezed it, to lessen the painful throbbing. There are such moments in life when one is willing to drop even the most instinctive of feelings to revisit something of grander emotion, and that was why I released my fist and sat down next to the soundless wire earbuds. Inside a clear crumbling container, were the contents of my early days, back when fingerpainting and spelling my name were deemed a prodigious talent, and when the firsts of really living had implications that accessed the subjection to endless documentation. How was I to preserve the essence of a moment now? I don’t see my family members running around with a camera, taking a picture of every first. It meant something then. I just have my thoughts that flutter around describing the beauty of the outside now. Just meaningless formations of letters that attempt to glorify what is behind the glass, and preserve the cultivated laughter that makes life so meaningful. At this point in time I couldn’t bare to continue through the photos, so I fastened the lid by putting all my weight on top of the box, and I left the house once locking the front door. Outside, the shadow was lifted, and now there was just the company of flickering streetlamps and a decayed sunset grasping hope of the dying lit sky. Everything seemed dead right then. I heard no crickets, no children, no car engines, no heart.

I turned into the street where the park was, and began walking toward it. But after a few yards, I couldn’t inch forward. I saw a little girl and her dad swinging, and for some reason I had no place in their moment. I couldn’t just play on the slide or monkey bars, and morph my reality into theirs. I had no business. I couldn’t sit on the basketball court and read either, because it appeared to be all damp for some reason. That was a pretty lucky dad, getting to just swing back and forth, hiding behind the facade of tending to his daughter. He was indefinitely having the time of his life. With his weight he got to go pretty high, and then would quickly swing down, repeating that pattern over and over again. And even at probably thirty years of age, he had more of a place in that park than I did. The girl was full of life chuckling at every little thing, and for an instance I could see this familiar orange glow surrounding just her and her dad. I felt tingling in my insides, the kind when you feel unsafe and stripped of protection. I looked down at my palms for awhile just staring at the various indents of lines, and when I looked up again, I didn’t see the father and the girl. The park was lit, and the court fully apparent of being dry. I could hear the cars screeching their tires, and helicopters in the sky, and even the presence of the crescent moon. There were families congregating outside, greeting those who were absent all day. Everyone seemed to be illuminating radiant light, but I had no such visible feature. I watched them hug one another, holding on for long minutes, and then going inside.

I regressed to the house, and unlocked the door leaving the keys within the lock, and then sat outside where I had been on the brick cement. Resuming my style of seating, I looked around. At first it had been as before, but after I blinked and blinked again, it became clearer. The silhouette from inside the house and the creaky white painted gate, and suddenly an entire field of just green luscious grass. The clean air that permeated my body, and the wind that sent shivers all around. And soon if I stopped typing and just really listened, I could hear the still trees. They were proudly the guardians of our esteemed establishment. And while the wonky ants, working adults, and playing children had all gone home, I kicked my feet from the ground underneath, and leaned against the rough prickly wall. I didn’t even care for my flannel, which would now have countless loose threads. The moon shone on, and the window no longer reflected the outside. The silhouette became a figure—one that invited me back inside the home.