Chloe

The Sunflower

There was a small park behind the house I grew up in. A large sandbox surrounded by small hills covered in grass and clovers and dandelions. A play structure sat in the middle of the sandbox, it was made of wooden planks, painted chocolatey brown.

I could feel the splinters even now.

At one end of the structure, there was a small, red slide, the other end had monkey bars and next to it was an old swing set.

When we were really little, Dad used to lift my brother and I up onto his shoulders. We would jump off and land on the other side of the fence, then sprint to the park, the swings our favourite target. The chains creaked and squeaked as we soared through the air like birds flying high in the crystal, blue sky.

Our imaginations ran wild. The play structure was a platform, a stage, for many Star Wars battles, Lord of the Rings wars and DragonBall Z fight scenes. The monkey bars were treacherous, dangerous obstacles that kept us from the spoils and goals of our quests.

We were brave knights and heroes protecting our realms from evil or nefarious villains defending our empires against the rotten influence of the good.

Life was easy. Life was free. The days were long, bright and eternal, filled with laughter, smiles, scraped knees and grass stains.

As time went on, as we grew taller and more aware, our imaginations were joined by new realities.

One of those realities was school, and that was where I met her.

I remembered the first day I saw her. It was the first day of school. I didn't recognize her from around the neighbourhood, so I assumed she must be new.

She wore a bright yellow dress, trimmed with a row of green and red flowers connected by leafy, wooden branches. Her cherry red hair fell past her shoulders and curled up at the end, and was kept out of her face by a headband with a brilliant, white daisy perched on top.

She was alone, I approached her. She looked at me with those warm, hazel eyes. In those days, there were no introductions, no handshakes or pickup lines. There was no contemplation, no thought put into it, no determination of motives. There were only simple questions.

Questions like: "do you you want to play blocks with me?"

We sat cross legged on the colourful, foam puzzle pieces that made up the classroom floor. We built wondrous structures that stood for ages, surviving and persevering through the chaos that surrounded us.

Up to that point, girls were too different from boys. They were from another planet.

They were aliens.

But Chloe wasn't an alien. She was normal, she was fun. She played with blocks and cars and even made dolls cool.

At the end of every day she would run into the arms of her father, who would to lift her up and spin her around in the air, always careful not to drop her pink backpack.

I'd be sad on Friday because school was over for another week, sad because I'd have to dismantle our castles and put the blocks away, sad because I'd have to wait two whole days to see Chloe again. As I threw the blocks into the blue bin, I'd take solace in the fact that Monday would soon arrive, and we'd have the chance to rebuild the castles, to make them bigger and stronger this time.

I spent my weekends at the park. Dad started to develop back problems as he aged, making it hard to lift us over the fence. One Saturday morning, I was awoken by the grinding of a chainsaw against wood. I went outside to inspect, and found Dad cutting a hole in the fence. I watched him, plugging my ears and shielding my face from the cloud of sawdust. He rose up, clutching his aching back, flashing a smile that was almost almost as large as the square opening he created. It was large enough for a child to squeeze through.