The walls were pure white and the outside of the building was coated in golden yellow bricks. A tree stood in the front circle, swaying slightly in the wind, but not comparable to the soaring flag planted on the silver flag pole just to the side of the tree. The colorfully inviting playground was often inhabited by the young children who flooded into the school each day. Just by driving past, one could tell it was recess time.

Despite my small stature, body constantly covered in pink clothing, I did not feel weak, nor impotent. I was built up and felt as though I was decorated in a protective armor that made me invincible.

Elementary School; it molded fragile children into intelligent, developed individuals. Students befriended each other, and even the janitor who we all knew and loved. We were youthful, innocent, and constantly joyful. Such joy was inevitable, as we were simply oblivious to any thread of reality.

The floors were incessantly smeared with dirt from outside and pieces of garbage children mindlessly littered it with. Nonetheless, the floors seemed to grip your feet at every step, as if to say, don’t leave; please don’t grow up.
The ceilings towered over our petite bodies; they were eternally unreachable demons hanging over our heads. By prancing through the hallways, one could easily sense love in the air. The love in the air that practically drowned us.

We were provided with educational material and the facts of life. We played constantly, both inside and outside. We were hardly controllable, but somehow us lions were tamed by the magicians our teachers were.

Four years later. Four long, rollercoasters of years had gone by. We had grown. We had matured. But, we never forgot our roots.

The floors no longer ached for us to remain young and innocent, but instead understood the value of our growing up; perhaps even the tiled floors of my elementary school had somehow grown to be more sensible. The ceilings weren’t the same unattainable evil spirit, but instead were merely a foot or less away from arm's reach.

I can still taste that special water fountain that stood on the corner of the hallway, near the gym. It was always ice cold and perfectly refreshing. Even four years later, it remained intact, and still just as satisfying.

The soles of my shoes grazed the glossy wooden floor of the gymnasium. It used to be massive; my four foot body would be winded to run from one end to the other. My eyes examined the after school intramurals team, cheerily playing soccer. Their screeching voices seeped through my ears and I rushed to cover them to avoid a headache.
No longer was this gymnasium so grand. Now it was a room, a simple room. Students played and learned in here. There wasn’t anything so special about it.  

After exiting the gym, I turned left, and rounded the oncoming corner to head down a
long, slightly eerie hallway. Running my hands along the wall, memories began to pour back into my mind. It was as if someone pressed play and suddenly I was swallowed by familiar voices and reminiscences.

I was jogging around the gymnasium. I was singing and dancing to “Count On Me” by Bruno Mars, with the whole school. I was temporarily dyeing my hair red for field day. I had entered some kind of twilight zone; nothing was real, but nothing was fake either.

I then got a glimpse of my former teachers. They had aged, certainly more than I had in four years, but nonetheless remained warm and welcoming.

The leader of the school, Mr. Blake, had ruled his kingdom when I was a member. Even now, Mr. Blake still relentlessly dominates his realm of Washington Elementary School. I had significant respect for him, as did most of us. He was a sort of father-figure, or an every-man, that all students could rely on. This quality of his never ceased.

The walls were now painted a calming blue, but the original bricks prevailed, like a shield, varnishing the outside of the building. I entered the library, which was always cold in temperature and stocked with a variety of books; far too many of them I had never read.

I examined the playground area, just beyond the blacktop that fused it to the school’s many exits. The handprints we left outside had been painted over. I liked to think that it was done to preserve our memories and imprints there, as not to allow other senseless children to assume the details of our time spent at the school. With the brightly colored handprints covered, it was as though we were never there. We were simply the ghosts of our elementary school’s past.