The Tip

At the end of the river's exhausted reach where swamp firmed into solid ground, there was a place the locals used as a tip. Broken, worn out stuff from clean outs, hoarded household effects finally let go, garage junk and the discarded leftovers from deceased estates were dumped there. The place was a goldmine for boys on the hunt for soapbox wheels and parts or anything that could be used to build wonders blueprinted on raging minds. Pipes bent into chopper handlebars to lend lift to a boring bike, fit outs for tree houses, defenses for forts, the frames for boats and airplanes that were born in hope but would never float or fly beyond a backyard. The thrill was in the making. When the council closed the tip and moved it miles away, it was as if a vital organ in the neighborhood soul had been taken out. Boys were deprived of the lifeblood and source of their making. For some time, groups would ride their bikes there and pause before an empty space and stare. They had no words for their grief. Slowly, the hole healed over though something inside had been lost. The bounty that was once provided by the tip was replaced by shiny things bought brand new from shops.