Perfection

The following is something I wrote a while ago. I've edited it a bit, but it's basically the same. It was my attempt at a vignette/stream of consciousness story...except it ended up being a retailing of some of my favorite memories. Honestly, I couldn't tell you if the jungle gym mentioned in this story is still standing today. I doubt it is, but maybe the next time I'm around Polo Missouri I'll swing by and see.

This story, Perfection as I've titled it, is dedicated to my cousins (Drew, Elena, James, and Leilani), as well as my uncle and sister (Dillion and Katie), who helped create all the adventures that took place on the pile of rusted metal we called paradise.



Title: Perfection

                 It was old. Made of yellow metal and rusted so bad in some places that, looking back, it was a wonder our parents let us play on it.

                It was rickety. In no way was it sturdy. Its bars would nearly bend in half as we hung from them; they would let out the oldest groan. A squeak that meant nothing to us at the time, but is now a sound on my memory’s soundtrack. 

                We were so young then that it was like climbing on an old man. A bunch of kids climbing on their grandfather as he gave them piggyback rides.

                We never saw it as an old grandfather though. We never saw it as old, period. When we were out there, climbing on it as if it could support an elephant, the rust and age never crossed our minds. To us the imperfections were invisible. To us, there was no place closer to heaven than at the very top of the tower.

                The tower…oh, it had gone by other names. What it was called was different for each of us. The tower… the fort…the spaceship…our parents called it the jungle gym.

                Its name mattered none. Whatever it was…the tower…the fort…the spaceship..it was our place of refuge. No matter what adventures we were on, it was the safe spot. We’d climb its bars…hop to the other side…land on a piece of wood…declare victory.

                Only when I was an Indian was it not a safe place. The others were cowboys…I was never allowed to win. I’d be thrown in the jail and then die by the end of the adventure. It didn’t bother me though.

                How could one be bothered when five seconds after their death they were alive again? We died...we lived…we lived…we died…our adventures continued on.

                Every summer we would gather for these games; sometimes during the fall as well. Then, one day, we found ourselves facing the greatest adventure of all.

                Rust appeared and we heard the old man squeak, We hardly touched it anymore. We had moved on…maybe, secretly, we were afraid to break it.

                Occasionally we’d take a seat on that piece of wood on top of the tower…the fort…the spaceship...but never for an adventure.

                We’re adults now. Each and every one of us. Each of us have parted ways. Words have been spoken to each other on occasion, but we hardly ever revisit our adventures. That chapter’s closed. Those pages yellowed.

                Yellowed, just like the tower…the fort…the spaceship…the jungle gym. Our parents would still say that’s what it was…a jungle gym. We would readily agree. Yet, there’s still something magical about it.

                I’m sure, by now, that old man is long gone, but looking back I still see perfection. Rust and rotting metal…squeaky chains and rotting wood…dangerous….risky…perfect.

                I cannot speak for the others, but for me that tower…that fort…that spaceship…that jungle gym…will always have that magic that makes it perfect. There is no amount of rust, yellowed metal, or old wood that wouldn’t make me take one look at it and think, “Perfection.”