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I lay in bed last night thinking of 
 everything and nothing, as I often do.
  For some reason or maybe for no reason,
    I thought of playing on my slip-and-slide 
     when I was a little girl.
In Florida, summer lasts from April until October.
We were always looking for ways to cool off.
That memory led to another and another. 
I remembered our neighborhood.
It came to life everyday with the sound of children's laughter.
Now, I often sit by my window hearing the silence of children 
indoors playing video games. Safe behind locked doors.
Occasionally, the birds come out to play 
or I hear a bull frog croak.
Squirrels run across our fence line searching for places to hide their treasures.
(The neighbor leaves out peanuts for them. The squirrels appreciate the gesture.)   
When I was a little girl, I caught grasshoppers and lizards, but not frogs. 
I didn't like frogs. 
I thought of my succession of childhood bicycles.
I felt free as I zigzagged through the street
riding with the wind in my hair and the sun on my face.
I haven't felt that free in a long time.
In those days, I never felt lonely.
I could always find a friend to share a secret with 
right outside my door.  
Our parents never thought they would send us outside to play
and never see us again. 
The neighborhood was our playground.
Until the day a young boy disappeared from a shopping mall
only ten miles from my childhood home. 
He was kidnapped, killed and decapitated.
I was eleven years old. Our world changed.  
On my playground, shadows lurked and everyone was a stranger. 
I cried when I saw the picture of the little boy 
with the baseball cap and toothless grin. 
My brother was the same age as that little boy. He had nightmares for a while.
I was eleven years old. Our world changed.   


By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders
for Debbie Guzzi's Fear contest
Second place finish
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