knew so much, they both loved life. Once they saw
me and asked if I wanted to catch a lion. They then
went to the side of the road, and with a spoon pulled
an ant lion from the top of a sand hill. So many secrets.
Every night Ira could be found with cue holder,
decorated with Panamanian art, at the pool table, playing
my father, or another man who died years ago. I remember
that man telling me that when I was younger he would
watch me on Easter Sunday, me in my pastel dress, by
myself, spinning, dancing in the streets. He remembered
me dancing. This is his memory, how he thought of me.
And I remember the McKinleys, Pete and Lindy, another
beautiful pair who talked of Mexico, of all the places
they’d gone, all the things they had seen. So many times I
would visit them just to hear them talk. And Pete would try
to stump me with an intellectual riddle every time I sat with
him; he would ask me about astronomy, what I had learned in my
classes since the last time I visited the park. Sometimes they
would take me to their country club, play on tennis courts made
of clay, how strange it felt on my feet through my tennis shoes.
It was like another world there. The park was
where I spent my Christmases, my Easters. I
remember swimming in the pool, a week shy of
thirteen, when my parents told me I was an aunt.
Now I talk to my sister on the phone, she asks me
if I remember so-and-so from Palos Avenue,
from Blue Skys Drive. The couple that had the ornate
rock garden in their front yard, or the snow shovel
against their light post with the words “rust in
peace” painted in white on the metal. Yes, I say, I
remember them. Well, so-and-so passed away last week,
she says. Heart attack. This is what it comes down
to, I think, all these memories are slowly disappearing.
So many memories. Where there are palm trees everywhere.
It was my other world, my other life, another
lifestyle, another everything. This was not an ordinary
park, but the children were so much smarter, and
still so full of life. So much to teach. So little time.