People always talk about special places. “Remember that trip to Europe? That sure was special.” “And that cross country trip, it was fabulous!” “Remember when I caught all those fish at the lake?” “Our high school sure was nice, wasn’t it?” “Home is where the heart is…” But what makes all these places special? Is it its physical character? Or is it its memorable capacity? Is a place ever truly memorable for what it is? People can say they have great memories of Disney Land or Mount Rushmore, but isn’t that because of the people they were there with? Can a place truly elicit emotions within a person, without them having to be connected to another person? I have yet to experience a place like that, somewhere that is special to me alone for what it is. All of my memories involved the people that were closest to me at the time.
Of course that’s not to say that I don’t consider a place to be special or important; that would be a lie. I have plenty of important places. The swing set at the tot lot by my house, my high school, my best friend’s car—and yes, I know that sounds strange, but it’s true—where I had so many meaningful conversations, my old female best friend’s dining room table, tree houses, hills, and I suppose there are many others. Places where I shared my best and worst moments, my happy times and sad times with the people I loved. I racked my brains. Was there any one place that held my entire heart? People tend to block the places where they have only horrid memories or the places they remember sitting, holding their knees, and crying. Natural human inclination leans toward holding their best memories in high esteem. Moments where they laughed, smiled, and fell in love. And yet, the best stories always involve the places of anguish and despair. Did I have a place like that? A place to call mine; where I laughed, cried, loved, and hated all within my heart? Yes, I remember that place very well.
I first came into contact with my beloved place at the young, impressionable age of fifteen. I had been a freshman in high school for a semester and had made the acquaintance of a boy—though I suppose he is a man now, being eighteen; back then he was only fourteen, so I’ll consider him a boy in this context—who was to become very meaningful to me through out my years. And yes, I do say this realizing we have only known each other for about five years. Back in those days, we shared our fourth hour class, English, which, ironically was right before lunch. On the first warm day of the semester, he suggested eating our lunch outside. Unfortunately, being freshmen, our lockers were across the school. I was lucky back then, to have a locker in the band hallway; his was in the pit, the lowest part of the school. After taking the time to purchase lunch, our dream of eating outside shattered. The grass on our school grounds had been entirely covered with students; it seemed that easting outside was quite popular during the warmer months. We considered returning to the cafeteria, when he pointed out a square of concrete. Yes, I realize, concrete is not that unique. It’s practically everywhere, people walk on it constantly, and it’s a drab gray color. I myself had walked across that particular square of concrete on numerous occasions without paying much attention to it; it was just a strip of sidewalk to get from place to place. Yet, in need of a place to sit, we crossed our legs and sat on that concrete; well, I sat on my English book, but the important thing is that we ate lunch on that square of concrete. That day it was a place to eat lunch; in one instant, it had changed from a foot rest to a table. I had no idea that one square of concrete would turn into a place where I could recall embarrassment, tears, laughter, joy, sadness, and comfort.
As I said before, it’s not very unique. It was just one of four square-shaped blocks cut from a winding path of concrete. It was gray colored and made of concrete; really, it was nothing special. Though I suppose the operative word there is “was.” Back then, it was just a place where we ate lunch, so I suppose at that point, I associated it with food. There was one day where I decided I would wear a short skirt to attract the attentions of the boy I mentioned earlier; yes, I’ll admit it, back then, I had a school girl crush on him. Much to my dismay, I happened to fall off the book I was sitting on—no, I don’t know how I managed that one—and my skirt flipped up. Though, I suppose looking back on it, I did attract his attention, just not the way I originally intended. There was also that time we made that pact to sit on our square—yes, by sophomore year it was our square, or “Squarie” as he liked to call it—every day of the school year. That lasted about a week. And yet, we continued to proceed to make that same pact every semester for the next two years. Did we ever keep it? No, of course not, but we still kept our satisfaction in making it. Our very first fight led me to sit on that square for an entire lunch hour. I ate nothing, merely sat on that square and cried to myself; I saw him the next hour with my puffy, flushed cheeks, but I was at ease from sitting on what normally would be a cold slab of concrete. He once told me a secret, after having decorated his Homecoming shirt. In my desire to hug him, I knocked his shirt on to our square. After that moment, our square was emblazoned with spots of gold glitter. And there was one sunny November day last year, after another fight, I sat upon our square and basked in the sunlight, remembering how it would feel with him sitting beside me; I had told him to join me if we were going to stop our fight, of course he never came. I held my knees close to me, raising my cheeks to the sky as I grasped what was most important to me.
It’s funny to think of it now. It was one square-shaped block cut from a trail of winding blocks. There were four others like it. So what made us pick it as our place? It was a cold slab of gray concrete then; it still is a cold slab of gray concrete, it just happens to be speckled in gold sparkles in addition to its bleak, gray coloring. There are not a lot of special things about it; it’s just a slab of concrete. Despite that, it’s a place I hold deeply in my heart. I suppose years from now, I’ll be asked what my favorite place in the world is; I’ll think of our cold, gray slab of concrete and say “Squarie.” And yes, the name stuck.
Author's Chapter Notes:
It's just a paper, but meh.
