April 4, 2009
By Jacqui BRONZE, Stamford, Connecticut
Jacqui BRONZE, Stamford, Connecticut
3 articles 0 photos 2 comments

We stood on the forgotten grass of the abandoned field we played on as children. Our fort still stood, to our astonishment. How full Grover Field, which was name by Tim, Donald, and I, seemed. The land held more memories then a child ever could. We were only children then, what were we to do? I tried to push the guilt out of my head.

The grass, unkempt and unloved, swayed against my shins. Tim, who has always been very ticklish, suppressed his laughter. He suppressed it for it was a serious time.

“Its so cold for spring time,” Tom commented while avoiding my gaze. His rosy red cheeks puffed out as he blew on his hands. It was very cold. We stopped walking at an area that seemed so well cared for compared to the other areas of our park. This specific patch had been taken care of until Donald’s mother died two years previous to the moment me and Tom stood upon the patch. A memorial lay quietly on the ground. Rotted flowers that had turned black seemed to mark the things lost upon this ground.

“We were only kids.” Tom agreed with my thoughts as he shook his head. The guilt had surely haunted him as it had me. Fifteen years previous to this day Donald had been kidnapped in front of us. A man came out of the woods and we ran. If only Donald wasn’t so slow. A tear trickled down my cheek. It was so warm compared to the air. I dare not blame it on Donald though. We could have turned around. We could of. That holds no meaning, though. We could of, but we didn’t. We ran.

Fifteen years and finally they found a woman that claims to have seen Donald alive five years ago. How cruel. Fifteen years of torture. The woman claimed Donald had a smile on his face, but that means nothing. It was characteristic of Donald to have a smile on his face. Donald had the biggest heart of all. He couldn’t bear to see others shed a tear.

Tim and I cleared away the dead flowers and placed a single rose. This rose was crimson color, often used to represent mourning. We were not mourning Donald’s death though, whether or not it happened, we were morning the loss of his personality. His laugh, his smile, his love. Even as children so young, Donald’s great heart was more evident then the lack of hope in a graveyard.

We turned simultaneously away from the memorial and strode back to Tim’s parked car on the road. The road was a good walk away from the memorial, so we had time to think. Tim and I never had awkward silences for we both enjoyed silence and knew so.

On the silent drive back to town, Tim received a phone call. As he listened to the person, his face turned white.

“We are about to see a ghost Jen,” Whispered Tim as his knuckles turned white from his tight grasp on the steering wheel. I nodded in acknowledgement of the words Tim had just heard on his phone. They found Donald.

How odd it felt to come to the realization that the impossible happened. It happened and Donald’s mother was not alive to see it. Rain started to splatter against the windows. Tim stopped the car and put up the roof of his convertible. As he started to drive again, I noticed his tears. Even with the shield of rain I could see the glimmer that tears bring to eyes.

Arriving at the police station, we saw many things. One thing clearly stood out though. It did not stand out because it was shiny or new, it stood out because it had a brown mess of hair and eyes bluer then the ocean. It stood out because it didn’t belong in jail and had a smile just dim enough not to be creepy, but just light enough to seem welcoming. I looked through the glass door of the police station unable to make myself face the blue eyes of Donald. I stood in the cold and rain and starred. Tim stood silently next to me, still trying to get his tears to blend with the rain. Fifteen years of guilt flooded out of my body and into the storm drains with the rain as Donald looked outside to Tim and me. His smile did not falter, but seemed to maximize in the warmth it emanated. It started to snow lightly, not sticking very much.

“Snow in April….” Tim looked warmly at the sky, “How odd.” I silently agreed with him and joined him in gazing at the sky. How odd this day had been. Donald was alive.

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