by Jane M. Bailey

First published in The Litchfield Connection, June 2023

            June. Best month of the year. Countdown to the last day of school. When, once upon a 1960-time, heat bounced off an asphalt playground and the teacher let the window monitor pull the casings all the way down with the window-pull. Sweat soaked dresses stuck to the connected desk-chairs that were installed in 1916, or thereabouts. A few of us got lucky and collected textbooks to take to basement storage where a cool breeze blew stagnant air that smelled old, like the books we piled on shelves.

            The clock hit two and we knew it was only a matter of time. Report cards were handed out, the coat closet was emptied of stray mittens, the teacher gave assurance we had been her best class ever, and we lined up for the last time as fourth graders. It was time for SUMMER!

            Buses roared off, and we walkers skipped down the hill to change into play clothes and begin the summer routine.

            Sidewalks filled with chalk hop-scotch charts. We alternated roller skating with bicycle riding. Our scabbed knees remained scabbed for the summer. Thump, thump went pink balls against the stoop. Thwack, thwack went double-Dutch jump ropes against the sidewalk.

            We’d pack picnics to take to the creek where we’d hop forbidden stones and build waterfalls over fallen branches.

            Thunderstorms were spent on a porch, with dares to run to the fence and back while thunder rumbled.

Summer meant sweet watermelon dripping, the Good Humor’s bell calling, and always the pop-pop-pop of soda pop.     

            Sixty years later my cell phone rings and it’s my daughter calling from Richmond, Virginia to tell me about my grandsons’ last days of school. For one a sixth-grade awards ceremony; for the other, the start of fall football practice. Now that’s a unique last day of school!  

We reminisced about my daughter’s end-of-school days while I glanced at my muted television’s tickertape running across the screen.

Numb, I interrupted my daughter with the words I read out loud. “School shooting, Richmond Virginia, high school graduation.”

            “Yes,” said my daughter in a hushed voice. “It is nearby. Two dead, five wounded.”

            We didn’t need to talk anymore. Words no longer worked.

            I hung up, turned on the sound and listened to a student describe the pop-pop-pop gunshots he heard as he came out of that Richmond graduation.

            I closed my eyes and remembered the sweet drip of watermelon, the Good Humor truck’s bell, and the pop-pop-pop of soda pop. Once upon a time.