A/N: Based on experience. The big gurl is me, the little one my best friends little sister. Please review.
Up on the canyon, near the open meadows, stood a building. It was empty, yet it was fuller than everything else in the meadows. Two little feet stepped upon the stone steps, accompanied by two bigger ones, still not full-grown. They stood in awe for a long moment, peeking at the empty fullness.
They held their breath involuntarily, eyes drinking in…. memories that weren't theirs. They could see children. Girls braided and neatly dressed in pinafores. Boys tugging on pigtails. All giggling. It was silent, yet they could hear them. Whispers and stifled laughter. Then the teacher's stern voice, as she entered, skirts billowing around her like a loose skin. They saw the children taking notes, correcting homework, grinning in delight at a good grade, sniffling secretly at a bad test score. It was like watching a play that was unrehearsed. Everything was similar to their our classrooms, yet different. It fascinated them, filled them with a strange sense of fulfillment, a floating, breathless feeling, like they had forgotten to breathe.
They peeked into every room, expecting to see a class full of excited children around each corner. They climbed the smooth stone stairs, almost feeling the little bodies being bumped against them. They felt the cafeteria full of hungry school kids, clicking forks against china plates, chattering. Laughter, groaning, complaints, giggles. In the kitchen, fat old women gossiped as they served home cooked meals, smiling at each child in turn. Ghost children. They saw it like a slow motion movie, with the soundtrack on.
Then there was the schoolyard itself. The girls could see, the little students, invisible, play hopscotch. Boys chased girls, secrets exchanged, bullies confronted, skirts blown up by the wind, gym played, soccer balls kicked, knees scraped, hugs given, whispers shared, pens lost, pencils broken, notebooks torn. The empty asphalt lot, with the broken bench off to the side, surrounded by the lonely pines, radiates all of this. Emotions are embedded deep in the heart of this empty school yard. And yet, the girls feel as if the wind also embraces their bodies with memories.
The older girl looks down, at the younger one, in the skinny black braids. All she needs is a pinafore and some shiny new shoes. And ribbons in her hair. She is entranced, by the memories, the deja-voo, the sense of remembrance, though it is the first time they've been to the ruin of an old country school. The older one leads the younger to the broken bench, and they sit, letting the memories tell them the stories of hundreds of little students.
When the dusk paints the sky orange and sapphire, the older girl puts her hand on the little girl's shoulder. For the first time since they entered, she looks up into the older one's eyes. Her green eyes are enchanted, eager, breathless, full of wind. They're laughing and crying, in spirit. She smiles, touches her braids.
The older one takes her hand. With one last look at the paint chipped, crumbling stone building and the lonely pines, the girls head down the hill. Before they leave the school-yard, something catches the little one's eye. She runs back to the bench. Entangled in a weed near one of the legs, is a dirtied white ribbon. She begins to pick it out, then hesitates, let's it tangle once more along the weeds, and returns to the gate, where the older girl is waiting. They smile at each other sadly, and head down the hilly street. Someone else's memories are implanted deep within them, echoing in their souls. How loudly the silent school breathes.
Up on the canyon, near the open meadows, stood a building. It was empty, yet it was fuller than everything else in the meadows. Two little feet stepped upon the stone steps, accompanied by two bigger ones, still not full-grown. They stood in awe for a long moment, peeking at the empty fullness.
They held their breath involuntarily, eyes drinking in…. memories that weren't theirs. They could see children. Girls braided and neatly dressed in pinafores. Boys tugging on pigtails. All giggling. It was silent, yet they could hear them. Whispers and stifled laughter. Then the teacher's stern voice, as she entered, skirts billowing around her like a loose skin. They saw the children taking notes, correcting homework, grinning in delight at a good grade, sniffling secretly at a bad test score. It was like watching a play that was unrehearsed. Everything was similar to their our classrooms, yet different. It fascinated them, filled them with a strange sense of fulfillment, a floating, breathless feeling, like they had forgotten to breathe.
They peeked into every room, expecting to see a class full of excited children around each corner. They climbed the smooth stone stairs, almost feeling the little bodies being bumped against them. They felt the cafeteria full of hungry school kids, clicking forks against china plates, chattering. Laughter, groaning, complaints, giggles. In the kitchen, fat old women gossiped as they served home cooked meals, smiling at each child in turn. Ghost children. They saw it like a slow motion movie, with the soundtrack on.
Then there was the schoolyard itself. The girls could see, the little students, invisible, play hopscotch. Boys chased girls, secrets exchanged, bullies confronted, skirts blown up by the wind, gym played, soccer balls kicked, knees scraped, hugs given, whispers shared, pens lost, pencils broken, notebooks torn. The empty asphalt lot, with the broken bench off to the side, surrounded by the lonely pines, radiates all of this. Emotions are embedded deep in the heart of this empty school yard. And yet, the girls feel as if the wind also embraces their bodies with memories.
The older girl looks down, at the younger one, in the skinny black braids. All she needs is a pinafore and some shiny new shoes. And ribbons in her hair. She is entranced, by the memories, the deja-voo, the sense of remembrance, though it is the first time they've been to the ruin of an old country school. The older one leads the younger to the broken bench, and they sit, letting the memories tell them the stories of hundreds of little students.
When the dusk paints the sky orange and sapphire, the older girl puts her hand on the little girl's shoulder. For the first time since they entered, she looks up into the older one's eyes. Her green eyes are enchanted, eager, breathless, full of wind. They're laughing and crying, in spirit. She smiles, touches her braids.
The older one takes her hand. With one last look at the paint chipped, crumbling stone building and the lonely pines, the girls head down the hill. Before they leave the school-yard, something catches the little one's eye. She runs back to the bench. Entangled in a weed near one of the legs, is a dirtied white ribbon. She begins to pick it out, then hesitates, let's it tangle once more along the weeds, and returns to the gate, where the older girl is waiting. They smile at each other sadly, and head down the hilly street. Someone else's memories are implanted deep within them, echoing in their souls. How loudly the silent school breathes.