A public park. An old haunt.
A place of my own – sort of.
For the teenage edition of me it was enjoyably away:
away from adults I knew;
from adults who knew me.
I felt that than.
I doubt I could’ve explained it
(too inexperienced; inarticulate),
But I could relish the too-rare privacy.
It’s still a good place to be.
Nothing nefarious, not even naughty.
It doesn’t come with memories
of stealing, drugs, booze or sex.
Don’t be hassled.
Be with friends.
That was enough then.
The same simple factors
play out now.
Any wistfulness for what was
is only noticeable
for its absence.
As I write this, I am at peace with the now.
The why of it
I was visiting an old haunt with no agenda, no goal. Just spending some time on a bright day.
It was refreshing to realise that I was content there. I know I find it easy to be restless but it’s a failing default. You can’t always be looking. I have no excuse: I should know that the future isn’t guaranteed.
It might well be a good thing to visit an old haunt. Coming to terms with the past, if necessary and if possible, might well be sensible.
It might seem that finding ways to prevent the past intruding unpleasantly is a Gordian knot. If so, finding a personal sword to yield is unlikely to be easy.