Desk Chair

It’s an unlikely place to be listening to this afternoon’s wild card playoff game. I’m trying my best not to be distracted by the flash of arcade games, millions—probably—of those plastic playland balls corralled within a neon-green netted structure that would barely fit inside our barn, rubber mats under my feet and along the walls, soda and ice cream machines at most every angle, and the stream of mildly annoying pop music that attempts to pipe itself into my being, as I sit alone on this picnic bench. The two little guys are happy, set free to roam, flip, and spin two hours away while the time passes until the school’s open house.

It’s a bit of a different season now. The storms have quelled, at least a little, for now. Years have passed since I walked with a little one in a stroller. I’m so grateful to have this chance again. My baby granddaughter indulges me with her peaceful presence as we traverse the streets of the town where she lives. It’s all unfamiliar—the homes, sidewalks, and trees—but I somehow know every step. As we work to try to get back to our former selves, it seems we just have a way of turning up.

Shriveled Mylar balloons, tangled high in the ceiling rafters, swirl in the breeze generated from the industrial fans. The party was over long ago, but here they are still, to witness and observe the fanfare, disappointment, and chaos long into the future, until someone climbs the scaffold to put an end to their spectating.

I rarely watch baseball on television, though Ilisten to nearly every game. It’s a wonderful thing—the Cubs playing into October. I do prefer, though, the regular season—looking forward to the company of this great game no matter where I am, and no matter our place in the standings. I’ll be lonely for baseball once it’s done.

My dear longtime friend, Carol, was laid to rest last month. She, for me, represented the joy and happiness of childhood and adventure. She died suddenly. Though we were not often together, I always felt she was with me. Knowing that she has left this earth—Carol, who seemed invincible—makes me want to slow down the push of the stroller, to be again walking with my friends Carol and Kathy when we were young moms.

Along these streets lately, I have seen a number of rolling desk chairs. Once new, they were tasked with creating a comfortable place to rest for the students, the writers, and the creatives who worked on their tasks at hand. Now, they are cast to the curb, left to wonder what is next.

I have thought of Grandma Evie and her meticulously manicured bushes, pruned as flat tops, as I have noticed a similar trend along these streets. I have thought of how she loved to believe we were well-mannered—as we were. I don’t think she would consider writing “f—- you” exactly twenty-two times with a sharpie on the loft stairs well-mannered. Maybe it is best that she is no longer here to witness this round of parenting. But she will know. We all will.

Sometimes I can tune out the loud voices—even the screaming. I don’t even know what they are saying. There’s just too much information in my head. I can’t tell what color it is because it’s stuck inside.

Our time in this neon gymnasium will end soon. The Cubs are down but just by a run. There will be at least one more game tomorrow. Today, knowing that, is enough.