I silently saunter to the weathered door,
by Jessica Prince
My hesitant finger presses lightly on a plastic button.
Maybe I should return.
Are memories best left undisturbed?
A bird rustles in the overhead canopy.
The door opens a crack and a cautious eye peeks out,
Then the door is opened in recognition.
A women in loose colourful clothing welcomes me.
Her curly hair swept up in a radiant scarf,
And her furrowed face speckled with paint.
I nervously enter the cavern of my childhood,
I am no longer the child I was.
Little innocent children stare up at me in awe,
As they play with clay as I once did,
The walls, still speckled with paint,
And abandoned toys, lie neglected in a corner.
The window still looks onto a tangled backyard,
The peephole into a wild, lush, hidden jungle.
I stare dumb struck at how little has changed,
As if frozen forever in time.
Now as I see it through older eyes, I realize what it really is.
It is not simply an art class or a playtime,
But a calm oasis for children to create memories in.
Milly eyes me nervously, she appears intimidated.
Perhaps my older appearance scares her,
She hands me a long-forgotten clay bowl,
And I reluctantly leave the past cave of calm.
But I know I no longer belong here.