The sandbox we shared as children was made of pine wood.
It was roughly four feet on each side,
Smooth, and filled with tan granules for our imagination to contort.
We spent thirteen years playing there,
Mapping out tiny towns,
And get-away cities.
Our little hands carefully poised to build the future,
Chafing and bright red from the friction.
We created beauty,
And found pleasure in destroying it.
We were never happier than during those sunny days,
Under the elm tree,
Practicing our amateur architecture.
Then we grew up.
We were too old to construct our sandy, fairy tale worlds;
Reality impatiently awaited us.
That special box was taken from us,
Offering up fuel for a fire,
Leaving only memories behind.
And, as time passed you made mistakes,
The kinds you’re warned about daily;
The kinds that change lives forever.
Now your walls are no longer made from soft, white pine.
You’re embraced by cold iron,
Kissed by coarse cement.