the field where we used to play

by Pam Avoledo

Over here, Sarah calls, and we are running on the green grass in the small field. Running around the white bearded gnome carrying two wooden buckets. Running in our tie-dyed flip flops. Running until we gasp and cough and go back to my house across the street for a glass of water.

This is where the priest lives and we are quiet. We’ll be wearing white dresses soon, eating hamburgers and hot dogs in garages with our pine-scented grandparents, giving us five dollars and blessings in a card. We’ll jump up and down in bounce houses, booked months in advance by our parents. We'll run between the dove and golden cross balloon garland, waiting for the sheet cake to be cut on the wooden  table brought up from  the basement.

It’s over here, Sarah calls, and she holds up a baseball with a flirty grin. We’re in spaghetti strap sundresses, watching the boys from our high school play in the small field of green grass. It’s the fourth inning and Levi slides in the needles, staining his gray t-shirt a light olive. Levi and Sarah. Sarah and Levi. Their names tied like ribbons in a corsage he’ll give her at prom. Their names printed together in the church program celebrating their marriage. Their names split like the  pills he continued to take, that she found in the cabinet, the ones he swore he tossed in the garbage can last week.

This is where the priest used to live. A family of three bought the house a decade ago. The field is freshly cut every Tuesday by a three-man landscaping service. The field is empty. The church has merged with another and changed its name. The mass schedule was kept intact. The priest left the church not long after we graduated. He married his wife, his neighbor next door.

Photo of Pam Avoldeo

BIO: Pam Avoledo's work can be found at pamavoledo.com.