Beyond The Cracked Sidewalk
Beyond The Cracked Sidewalk
Beyond the cracked sidewalk, the telephone pole with layers of flyers in a rainbow of colors, and the patch of dry, brown grass there stood a ten-foot-high concrete block wall, caked with dozens of coats of paint. There was a small shrine at the foot of it, with burnt out candles and dead flowers and a few soggy teddy bears. Graffiti filled the wall, red letters on a gold background: ‘Rejoice! Rejoice!’
Most days I walked past the dusty wall without so much as a glance. I grew up hearing stories about a little girl in the neighborhood who had run away. The shrine was the only reminder of what we assumed was a horrible past. The only person who seemed to remember was the little, old lady who placed new candles, flowers, and teddy bears at the shrine once a year.
I grew up in the run-down neighborhood. The caged buildings in which we all lived made us feel like prisoners in our own homes. Young children would try to go out and play on the dilapidated playground toys, but the gang members would just scare them away. I guess that’s how it’s always been, but I hoped that, one day, that would change.
I thought to myself, “Maybe I should play a part in fixing up my neighborhood, instead of just walking through it with my head held down”. I wondered if I could convince others to join me in cleaning up the trash and painting over all of the nasty, gang-related graffiti. I had seen nice neighborhoods on television and had always wanted to live in such a place. It seemed like it would be a peaceful place to be.
I started by taking down the worn out flyers and replacing them with ones of my own, asking for help with my project. Word soon got around and I couldn’t believe how many people were willing to participate. So, I organized a regular meeting time at the playground and the gang members evened show up; if nothing else, out of pure curiosity.
All throughout the summer, we spent our days cleaning up the park, painting the playground equipment, and even mowing the patch of dry, brown grass. Many people in the neighborhood would lend a hand throughout the day. It only takes a little bit from each person to accomplish something huge.
When summer was over and school started up again, we spent less and less time worrying about our little project. It didn’t take long for the trash to starting blowing around and piling up along the ten-foot high concrete block wall. The gang members started hanging around the playground again and the children were too scared to go out and play. More and more graffiti began showing up on the buildings and no one would take the time to paint over it.
The homeless people started living in the run-down alleys in their make-shift, cardboard houses and fewer and fewer people would dare to go outside. I don’t know what happened, but we were apparently too busy with our lives to worry about our little project anymore.
Throughout the long, cold winter the shrine was covered in snow and I hardly even remembered that it was there. Once in awhile, someone would clear off the fresh snow and reveal the little spot where, long ago, someone had taken the time to build a memory.
It seemed like the town didn’t care much for our little neighborhood. The crimes just kept on piling up and more and more people decided to leave. It seemed like my little slice of childhood would soon turn into a ghost town. Every day got lonelier and lonelier.
It’s not like I thought my neighborhood was paradise, but it was my home; it was all that I knew. Although I tried once, long ago, to make a difference, I couldn’t help but to wonder what it was that was so important that we all just let our place in this world wither away.
As I got older, I would stop at the shrine more and more and wonder why it was built and who built it. I often thought of the love and devotion that someone must have had to build such a touching memorial. It was a part of the neighborhood, yet I knew nothing about the reason for its existence.
I began spending less and less time in the neighborhood. I was getting older and there were more important things on my mind, the mind of a teenager. Then, after high school, I decided that it was time for me to move and start my life elsewhere. I moved into the heart of the city, where I became just one small part of a larger crowd.
I couldn’t believe the pace of the city world. I was overwhelmed by it all, but I learned to fit in. I began working for a newspaper as a copy boy, and eventually, I would become a reporter. I loved doing research and solving mysteries. I seemed to have a knack for getting to the bottom of things.
I became a trusted reporter in the city and was very well respected. I believed that a story should be told truthfully and with absolute integrity. I never wrote a piece unless I researched it as far as I could. I also believed in telling both sides of any given situation and letting the public make an informed decision.
I met a woman while on assignment with the same outlook on life and the career we chose. She was about sixteen years older than me. She came from a small town neighborhood, too. She knew what it was like to have very little, but she cherished every moment that she had. She wouldn’t talk about her childhood much, or about where she grew up. All she said was that her parents were long gone and that her younger brother was killed in Iraq.
She told me that she had cancer when she was ten, but that it had gone into complete remission when she was twenty. She had become a very optimistic person since then. We began dating and spent our time together doing the normal things that people do. We would go to movies and go for long walks in the park. It was such a perfect time in my life.
Then, one day I asked her to marry me. We eloped and didn’t tell anyone. We enjoyed the secrecy of it all. We moved away to a small town, into a neighborhood that was very much like the one I grew up in, except that children were always playing outside. Everyone was friendly to each other. There seemed to be nothing out of place.
I began working on a book. I wanted to write a novel about small town life. But that would have to wait. My wife got pregnant. I began working at the local, small-town newspaper. There were quite a few interesting things to write about and I wrote with passion.
I wrote stories about community and the usual things that go on in a small town. There were sporting events, parades, and neighborhood gatherings. I loved writing about the people I knew. But I never felt like I was a part of something special.
My wife gave birth to a little girl. We named her Hannah. She was a beautiful, little bundle of joy. Then, less than a year later, we would have a little boy. We took them to the park every weekend and watched them grow up in front of our eyes.
When they were little, we tried to teach them the value of family and togetherness. We taught them to love others no matter where they came from. They were quick learners about many things in life and they became very compassionate towards all creatures on Earth, especially their fellow human beings.
One day, I took my children to the town in which I grew up. I wanted them to see where I started out and I wanted to spend some time visiting with old friends. My wife was very reluctant to go but in the end, agreed. Not much had changed in the little run-down neighborhood. There were still gangs hanging around in the park and trash piled up along the tall, concrete wall. And the shrine was still there; still surrounded by burnt out candles, dead flowers, and teddy bears.
When my wife saw the shrine, she began to cry. She said it just made her very sad. My little girl asked what had happened here. I told her that the shrine appeared just before I was born. She felt sad about the dead flowers and wanted us to put fresh ones at the foot of the shrine. So, we walked to the local flower shop and Hannah chose some pretty, purple flowers and laid them next to the candles. We stayed in an apartment that overlooked the shrine, so that Hannah could keep an eye on the flowers that she left.
Three days later, an automobile pulled up and parked beside the concrete wall. The driver opened the door, but did not get out of the car. Although her face was in shadow, it was easy to tell she was sad. There was something about how she turned away from the sun and rested the weight of her hands on the steering wheel, something about her silent composure, that caused Hannah to sigh. Hannah watched the driver lean out of the car and stretch her hand out towards one of the burnt out candles.
Hannah wanted to go out and see who the woman was, but I wouldn’t let her. I told her that whoever she was, she seemed to know why the shrine was there and who it was built for. But I felt that she should be left alone. Whatever it was that had happened so many years ago was directly related to her.
After visiting for several days, we went back to our little town and continued on with our lives. Our children got older and my wife and I grew farther apart. I don’t know what it was that came between us, but it seemed like it all started after we visited my neighborhood and the shrine. It had been almost a year since we visited the shrine.
Every now and again, I found myself longing for the comfort of my little, run-down neighborhood. So, I went back; back to where I came from. I went back to the caged and dilapidated building where I grew up. I don’t know what I was looking for, but I just needed to find some answers.
I went back to the little shrine, which was still surrounded by burnt out candles, dead flowers, and little trinkets. This time, I was determined to find out what it all meant. I wanted to know what had happened just steps from my childhood. I wanted to know who the shrine was for and who built it.
So, I began asking all of the older people in the neighborhood. I went from door to door, asking the ones who had been there for decades, who the shrine was for. Then one day, I met an old man who told me the story. It happened just before I was born.
He was a very private man, living all alone. He lived in the same apartment his entire life. He said he couldn’t bear to leave, just in case, one day, she came back. He had never told anyone what had happened. Telling me was the first time that he had ever spoken of it. He was very reluctant to tell me what the shrine was all about, but he did.
“It was winter in the old neighborhood,” he said. “It was a time when kids were playing in the snow without fear, before the gangs moved in. Fathers went to work and mothers stayed home to care for the children. There was nothing to fear in the neighborhood. If a stranger wandered through, they were greeted with a smile. It was a time when people felt safe.”
“But there were secrets; secrets that would destroy our family.” I could still see the sadness in the old man’s face when he spoke. Maybe it wasn’t sadness. Maybe it was guilt; guilt for not saying something sooner.
He had a wife and two children, a little boy and a little girl. They were a loving family, or so it seemed to the rest of the neighborhood. He worked very hard to keep food on the table and the place warm. But something terrible happened.
“I was a very caring man and I adored my wife and children. I would spend time with them every evening, after work. My wife would make dinner and we would all eat together, as a family. After dinner, she and I would play games with the children. We would sing together in the living room. ‘Rejoice! Rejoice!’ was my little girl’s favorite song. After we put them to bed, we’d spend time together just relaxing and enjoying each other’s company.”
“My daughter was a very outgoing and playful child. She was very much a tomboy and loved to play outside. My son seemed to be attached at her hip. She was a few years older, but she always had time to play with him. She would always include him in whatever she was doing.”
“When I began noticing changes in my daughter, I would ask my wife about it. She would just blame it on normal changes in a child. She would always have an excuse about my little girl’s lessening personality. I would try to comfort my little girl more and more.”
“When my daughter was ten, we took her to the doctors to see what was wrong. She was diagnosed with cancer and seemed to be declining rapidly. My wife wouldn’t accept it, and ignored the issues that arose. She just couldn’t accept that her little girl was ill. It was during a time when you just didn’t talk about problems in the home, so nobody else in the neighborhood knew what was happening.”
“When I found out what was wrong with my little girl, I didn’t know what to do. I spent every bit of extra money we had to get her treatment. My wife became more and more of a recluse. She was a good person, but she didn’t know how to handle what was going on with our daughter.”
“I began spending more time with my daughter than with my wife and son. But the only thing that accomplished was to push them both away. My son grew to resent me and my wife just shut herself down completely. She wouldn’t speak to me at all and, as soon as I got home from work, she would leave and not return until very late at night.”
“Eventually, I quit work to care for them all, but it took its toll. My wife would continually talk about leaving because she felt like she was a burden on the rest of us. My daughter would cry and plead with her not to leave. She would apologize for getting cancer and causing all of our troubles.”
“One day, when my little girl was sixteen, she just disappeared. She ran away because she thought the troubles my wife and I were having were all her fault. I spent years searching for her, but to no avail. Her mother built the shrine and then left, as well.”
“I had always hoped that, one day, my daughter would come back to us, but it never seemed to be. Her mother would come around once a year and leave candles, flowers, and teddy bears at the shrine, but I never had the courage to go out and speak to her.
“After that, I just started withering away. I spent most of my time alone in the apartment. My son would hardly ever come around and, when he did, I only had bad things to say. He went into the military after 9/11 and was killed shortly after his first deployment to Iraq.”
As I was listening to his story, I couldn’t help but think about my wife and how the shrine affected her; the fact that she grew up in a small neighborhood like me and that she had a younger brother who was killed in Iraq. The story began brewing questions in me that I never expected.
Was she the little girl who ran away? Was the man telling me the story my wife’s father? He couldn’t be. She said that her parents were long gone. I hurried home and confronted my wife about her reaction to the shrine. She broke down in tears and began telling me her story.
She hadn’t been back to the neighborhood since she left. She had no idea what had ever happened to her parents. She found out about her brother while doing a news story. It was the words ‘Rejoice! Rejoice’ above the shrine that made her realize that it was for her.
I told her that her father still lived in the same apartment and that I had met him and he told me the whole story. I told her that he searched for her for years and that her mother was the one who built the shrine and would come back and visit it once a year.
“She was the woman who Hannah saw in the car, that day?” she asked. Then she began to cry. “I’m so sorry for not telling you everything. I just didn’t know what to do after I saw the shrine. I never imagined that my mother would leave my father after I left. I thought I was doing the best thing by leaving.”
So, a couple of weeks later; exactly one year after we had been there, I took my family to the neighborhood to see my wife’s father. We introduced our children to their grandfather. We stayed in the same apartment that overlooked the shrine and, sure enough, just as she had done for the last 30 years, her mother pulled up and parked next to the concrete wall. Except, this time, she was greeted by her husband, daughter, and grandchildren.
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