Hide+and+Seek

Walter Kunkle Junius Paul Wright III Honors Creative Writing Memory Poem  On a cold November day, several schoolboys engage in their ritual of hide-and-seek. There was the crisp air that burned the sinuses and made tiny eyes water, and forced runny noses to be rubbed on navy shirtsleeves. There was the boy who was “it”, sitting by the shrine of the Virgin Mary with his hands over his eyes, counting to sixty-seven as his friends scattered, shouting and whooping. There was our familiar hiding spot behind the music building, where my friends and I hid and talked in whispers, each of us ready for the chance to sprint. There was the squeal of the lookout and the patter of tiny feet on asphalt as my friends and I escaped through a dank alleyway, filled with the ever-present hum of the old air-conditioning units. There was the home stretch, a straight shot across a daunting expanse of blacktop where my friends and I broke into a sprint, determined not to be caught. There was the cry of victory as we slammed onto the stone benches that surrounded home base, and wheezed and panted with grins on our faces. There was the dirt and grime and the bruises and scraped knees that covered each and every warrior by the time his parents came to pick him up.