The Sandbox

I found myself walking down the road to the playground. I has become a short distance, only a few long strides are left of the once long march. A child passes by. A young boy he is, running and crying. His trousers are stained with patches of wet sand. He is still holding up his long blue shovel. His eyes are squinted and he seems to almost trip over his own small feet. I wonder if he can see his way back home at all.
And I look down to my knees to see if they are still sand encrusted. And as wet as they feel. Because the boy could be me. And I am sure he is.
But then we are all those years apart. He couldn't tell me what happened in a way that I could understand. All I have is the distant and fading memory of how it felt back then. And I can't tell him that I know how it is like in a way that he would believe me. And right that is. Because I almost seem to have forgotten.
So I walk over to the playground like I once wanted one of the great authorities to do. And speak to the other kids and explain to them how they did me wrong. There are many children playing in the sand. And there is nothing for me to see, it is as if nothing has ever happened. And for all of them it is just like that. I am the only one who will remember that incident for all those years to come. They forgot about it the minute I left the playground. So whom am I supposed to blame when there is none left who could feel any guilt?
I sit down on a bench near the sandbox and feel the dry sand scratching under my shoes. A few minutes later the young boy's mother arrives at the playground. He is at her hand still carrying his long blue shovel. As he is walking into sandbox again, I decide to walk over to her. Maybe I can tell her now what I really wanted to say back then. And maybe she can help me to understand why she couldn't help me the way I wanted her to.

Sunnyvale, 07.08.2000

© 2000 Jan Torben Weinkopf