Through Eagle's Eyes

From a distance, it does not seem
like much. From a distance, the bare limbed trees that sprout up randomly
throughout the grass field like splatter paint do not catch the eye. From a
distance, one would not guess that the faded blue play set resting in the sea
of sand the color of fake gold held thousands of childhood memories, each one
stored perfectly in the tiny individual specs that blanketed the ground. The
whole place seemed uninviting, like an old fortress, with small wooden pillars
lining the outside and grass, both dead and alive, growing carelessly
throughout. The trees stood like guards, defending a playground that needed no
defense, for no child within their right mind would set foot onto the long
narrow path that led up to a sure afternoon of dullness and boredom. This is my
childhood sanctuary. This is, Eagle
Park.

I made my way through Eagle Park,
as I had done hundreds of times in my life, since the early ages of five or
six. The grass swayed gently in the wind, while my shoes softly kick up broken
bits of brown leaves; the last survivors of winter. The grass was a mix of
different colors, the pale white grass consuming the middle of the park while
the outside layers hung onto the last drops of green they had in their stems.
Upturned earth lay in numerous mounds around the park, the dark rocks and dirt
showing no effort to blend in with their surroundings. I walked toward the
picnic bench, the bench that had sat there since the park had been made, the
bench that was chained to the cement island it controlled, the bench used by
mothers countless times to assemble parties or place their screaming children
that were a little too ambitious in their adventures. The wooden bench was a
mutated copy of the trees, chipped wood and dry yellow moss decorated its
exterior, the wood itself looked aged and exhausted. I cautiously eased myself
onto the table, resting my feet on the bench. I noticed one tree different from
the others. This tree did not belong, it had strong limbs and bright leaves and
a strong trunk and tough bark and did not shake in the wind and did not look
ready to fall over and die. This tree made noise when the wind blew through,
its leaves rustling together to create a roaring sound in that silence like
waves crashing onto rocks at the oceans bank. Evergreens stood-tall and strong,
fresh and bright, free and luscious-at the far end of the park while their
crippled cousins cried out with whispers in the wind, their branches no longer
able to speak having been bare for months. I turned my body to face the play
set, and as I did, the memories swept over me.


The sand crunched beneath my
shoes, the soft sounds of thousands of beads bringing a relaxing sense to my
mind. The sand was not smooth, instead craters made up the whole surface, the
work of heels filled with laughter and joy. I made these now myself, walking
toward the playground, leaning myself against the “L” shaped ladder, dark blue
paint peeling to reveal the crude metal that lay beneath. I remember the afternoons
I had spent here, sprinting from school to home to the park, embarking on
journeys that would take me miles away, to different worlds, all in the very
real planet known as Eagle Park. The play structure as a whole would be seen
simply as something that needed replacing: the safety hazards associated with
it would reach a dozen easy. I saw only what my childhood was reliving, the
slide I had descended every way thinkable, the monkey bars that had introduced
new fears and helped me conquer others. All aspects of this playground
contained memories of another part of my early years, enclosed somewhere in the
blue paint that covered the entire set.


The slide was a small one that
corkscrewed to the right before looping around to the left and dropping you into
the pit of sand at the bottom, only for you to scramble to your feet and race
back up the ladder for another ride. It was a paler blue than the other pieces
with a cover at the top of it, daring the boldest of children to ascend, only
to hurry back down while withholding their shouts of fear. The slide twisted at
the worst of angles, the sun shined directly onto it when there was no cloud
cover, stopping those without long pants from descending, or risking the
one-hundred percent guarantee of burns covering the legs, resulting in a trip
to the grandfather bench. The slide resembled an entrance, the sole passage for
children to go down before engaging in whatever adventure lay ahead that day.


I casted my gaze to the monkey
bars, curving in the shape of an “S” ending with a ladder on each side. Old
fears flooded into my mind, and conquered fears exited my mind. I thought of
the things I had achieved on those monkey bars, and the pain that I had felt on
those same bars. My childhood days I spent on top of that rusty blue horizontal
ladder, and the other days I had wasted staying far from it. Those bars held
mixed emotions, mixed memories, and as I looked at them now, I had mixed
thoughts about them.


Eagle Park
rests today, a weary old park, long overdue to be refurnished and cleaned up,
but reluctant to change and become unfamiliar to so many kids like me who spent
half their childhoods there. As I left the park through the wooden pillars, I
looked back at the park and, in the back of my mind, I was glad it was not
significant to me anymore. My childhood was behind me, and the park went with
it. I played. I grew. I stopped playing. I had finished with the park, and I do
not say this as if I am glad to be rid of it. Eagle Park
rests in me like its old faded blue play set rests in the sand. Joy, laughter,
friendship-all I experienced helped shape the person I have grown to be. It now
remains at the corner of Almanor
Street, awaiting the next generation to come. The
grass waits to stain the knees of wrestling kids, the slide, with the help of
the sun, ready to burn the legs of those brave enough to endure its ride. The
trees continue to fight through winters, their bare limbs soon to become
decorated with lush green leaves. The sand will attempt in vain to smooth
itself over, while tiny feet ensure its crater surface to continue for years to
come. From a distance, not much. From up close, a whole life.

~Caleb L