At five, my friends and I swarmed over rocks while our parents sat at picnic tables, laughing, gabbing about births, new cars, boring jobs.
At thirteen, we snuck into the woods for experimental kissing while our parents laughed and gabbed about deaths, broken-down cars, retirement.
Twenty-one turned our minds toward marriage. Many had ceremonies on the park’s open lawn; a few already had children, broken-down cars, and boring jobs.
Years flew by. Everyone had children. Some had fulfilling jobs, some divorced, and many had illnesses we’d never heard of.
Now, the tables sit empty, but the sound of laughter remains.
Up From the Ashes 