Reminisce

Patricia Elliot

I was early. I got out of my red Ford and headed for the doors of Rosedale Jefferson High School. The steps which I so often walked up and down, where I had my first kiss, my first reprimand by a teacher even, were now more grey and cracked than I remembered them from my first year in 1994. 

I hesitated before I proceeded. I turned my gaze up to the front doors. The doors that once seemed so big and grand, now had scratches in the dark, chocolate colored wood and the glass lost its shine. 

Up the stairs I went, the sound of my heels resonating against the concrete. I stopped at the doors and put my unmanicured finger against the glass and slid it down, putting just enough pressure, waiting for that annoying squeaky sound. Wasn't there. I don't know why I liked to do that, I didn't particularly like the sound but I guess it was the way my warm finger felt against the cold glass. My little four-year-old girl loved to do this too. Does it every time at the doors of her ballet studio. It always squeaks. 

I turned the doorknob and smelled Clorox. I wonder if the janitor... Harry, if he still works here. I walked past the lockers, eager to find mine. These lockers never worked properly, but they're still here amazingly enough - alive and well. Maybe not well, but alive. 

Krrrink. 

The girls' room.

 

The End

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