Screech

By JR Jurzynski

    Screech, tweedle. Little hands and arms pushed hard against the tattered edges of drab vinyl. Screech. Tweedle. Little legs and feet pushed hard against the cracked surface of Highland Avenue. Screech, tweedle, tweedle. Scrush. A flat on one of the acrylic casters interrupted the rhythm. Screech, tweedle, tweedle, tweedle, scrush. Old enough to walk and the determination to help. Screech. Tweedle.

     From the ten-tenement to the house at Circle South. First memories of childhood. Tree-lined streets of arcs or tangents blocked off by design. House lots configured pie-shaped or rectangular. Dependent blocs where one would find mostly democratic sentiment amongst the factory workers. Jack was the talk—”Richard will never stand a chance.”

    With the enthusiasm of a three-year-old, a trajectory from the old side to the U.S. Postal Service box located at the new was selected. Screech. Tweedle. Tweedle. Scrush. Tweedle.

   Destination attained, next, a curve along Circle South was negotiated and “home.” Screech, screech, screech . . .

   The vinyl was considered drab, the carpet ancient drab. Brown and all its earthy hues, a full blossom festival from the forties, covered surfaces from top to bottom and bottom to top. The toy box and toys had made the journey without injury? Screech. Tweedle. Scrush.

    Toys and a toy box. Mothers, fathers, sons and daughters. Neighbors and neighborhoods. Towns and cities. Counties and states. Nations and continents. Worlds and galaxies. Universe. Toys and a toy box. 

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