The Day Our World Changed

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