THE GROUNDSKEEPER'S FAREWELL

It’s always been a pretty easy job, keeping things squared away. Not too much has changed over the years. Thanks to the administration for the upgrades in equipment. Thanks to the kids for the smiles and waves each morning. That was always my favorite part of the day. Watching them march from the long line of yellow buses, into the building, skipping through leaves in fall, like little Eskimos in the snow, and past my tulips in spring.

I’ve enjoyed caring for this land of learning, and the time outdoors breathing the cool morning air has made me feel rich. The time alone with my thoughts, and the many holidays off were always perks I’ve been grateful for. There was even the time Miss Kennedy asked me to fill in as Baloo in the musical, though most of the time, I’d just sing to myself.

Though there’s more gray up top, and a few more focal’s in the lenses, I’ve never considered leaving this special place I call home. This place of peace I found after the war.

The dirt may forever remain under my nails, as my sweat and blood will forever remain in the soil. But now I must be goin, as the duties of raising the colors, is one I can no longer stand. So frequently now, I’m notified to raise them only half.

Watching the children march by that solemn flag, representing the world they’re growing up in. And every week, another shooting, another bomb, more death, less hope. They don’t notice it themselves, but I can’t help but see its shadow cast by the rising sun, flicker on their faces as they blissfully walk to the building, ignorant to the war raging around them.

No I can’t raise that flag half anymore, and so I must be goin.

I had finally been able to raise it high, after two more weeks of … solidarity … as they’re callin it these days. Last time Brussels, or was it Florida, can’t keep track. Then word came again, of more tragedy. Feels like she flew half, more than half this year, and I see no hope for next.

Makes me sad to know I won’t see the children in the mornings. But the optimism they use to bring me, isn’t enough when there’s so much despair everywhere else.

I thought things would get better, but the marching in the streets these days doesn’t carry the same pride and hope it carried back when I was drafted. You’d think with all their pocket-cameras now they’d behave better, but they don’t and the cops shoot ‘em, and they shoot the cops. You’d think with their fancy interweb they’d try talkin’ to each other and maybe realize a common human experience. But they don’t, and so we bomb them, and then they bomb us.

My war was in the jungle, but this one’s ragin’ in the streets. Like a … crazy … guerrilla, world-civil war Every man doomed by his actions or the actions of the other. So many Abel’s, so many Cain’s.

Not sure if this generation is to blame for it, or if ours set them up for failure. Can’t really tell anymore if things are getting better or worse. But I do know I’ve been flying those colors low more and more these past years.

So … today … I’ll raise her one more time, Tall and Proud, despite orders from administration. Not out of insubordination or disrespect, but rather, in desperation. As a dying wish

I’ve loved these kids, as if my own, and I wish them the best for survival in this crazy world I’m leaving them. I wish them the best in their learning, and in turning things around in the future. Best of luck. Whatever you do, don’t do like us. And maybe, just maybe, the next groundskeeper will get to fly those stripes high, more than I.

As for me, I will tidy up, and close the shop. Raise my salute, and return home to Betty. I will hold her in my hand one last time and kiss her, a cold kiss on the lips, and squeeze her, and watch those little faces, from somewhere else.

Semper fi children.