Abandoned playground

Today on my walk, I took the path I’ve often taken with Bella and Evan: through Couch Park, past the playground where I first took Bella in 2012 and Evan in 2017. Every step of the way I see memories: this is where Bella sang to the leaves, this is where Evan helped Batman save a princess. They left ghost-images behind them: words, sounds, gestures imposed on places. I see those images (some I caught in photographs) and remember. Bella is no longer interested in playgrounds; Evan has almost aged out of them.

I imagine most people live with ghost images all their lives, but it’s new to me. Until I came to Portland, I never lived anywhere longer than six years. Most of my life, three or four. I never saw the same places year after year, with ghosts swirling around them. Now I do. What a privilege it is to stay in one neighborhood all these years, to watch children outgrow the playground, to touch again the paving stones they walked on when walking was new to them, when they needed my hand for support. I marvel at how all these years have been packed to the gills with love.