lonely

i double dipped my carrots, i blasted my music until my ears hurt, and there was nobody to tell me not to do it.

i'm tired of being lonely, of being alone.

i wish next week would hurry up and get here.

Picture me, a 5 year old. Its winter, I'm wrapped up in my winter clothes along with wool mitts and a pink wool hat. It's still winter cold, but recently the snow had a great melt down. The snow-turned-water washed the dirt into great puddles of mud. There are five of us children. Angela-8, Jay-7, Kath-7, Randy-5.5, Rach-5. We're at the other kids' family's farm. A simple affair of a dirty white farmhouse, a faded red barn, and a driveshed clustered around a grassyard containing a playground and yardshed. The buildings are bordered by a road at the front and two fields on the sides, but most importantly, backed by a narrow dirt lane, a curving path towards a looming wood of children's fantasies.
It was down this path that the five of us traipsed. All in winter attire that was much too baggy, but fit the purpose. The woods grew in the distance as we walked on. The trip down the lane seemed to be taking near to five times it should. And as I recall, the stride I now walk with swallows the distance in a quarter of the time. The bend in the lane appeared just below the dip in the rutted track, and the edge of the woods stood stiff to all lookers. The woods were boardered by tall weeds laced with frost and sprinkled with snow that settled deep at their base. A moment of hesitation and Jay stepped through the snow. He sank deep, and had to part the tall weeds that dwarfed his small frame. Angela followed, wading through and breaking a trail. I followed. There was mud beneath the layer of snow that came up to my waist. Breaking free of the weeds I was into the canopy of the trees. Leaves or no, the pines smiled a warm green scent as we picked our way through the forest towards the familiar 'pond'. Squeezing through a tiny gap in a ring of tall pines we gathered by the fort, that was suddenly exposed, as we stepped into the grove. The fort was primative. Wooden stakes pounded into the earth in a generous rectangle and more closely around the edges. Long tree branches lay on the wall frame, across the top, to form the rafters. Sheets of rusted and bent metal encircled the wood stakes to creat walls, and a great blue trap, spotted by many repairs, was cast over top. The small door faced the pond, a creek's dammed surface, glassy with ice. On the other side of the pond were an assortment of swings. Ropes cast over branches, looped holes in the bottom for feet, a wooden seat, a stout stick to swing on. A log see-saw sat to the side of the pond, dusted with powdery snow.
Inside the fort were a collaboration of amusments. In the back corner were a set of stone slabs, the oven. Above it and all along the back wall was a board shelf, nailed in place, and littered with chipped dishes and rusted pots. The rest of the fort was open, though a old dart board stood on the wall, darts waiting, and a an old milk barrel housed the handmade bows and arrows.
In the weather of the season we spent our hours of innocence living in the fort, traveling along the creek's length to the sack hill, where under a cleverly hidden cavern of tree's roots housed our feed sacks. Perfect for sitting on and coasting down the packed snow hill, and boot skating on the creek and pond. After a full morning of fantasies and snowy joys we would heed the call of the lunch bell to travel out of the woods. Being infinately careful to splash in the melted mud puddles, we raced each other in short bursts that took us faster towards the house that promised hot cocoa and cheese & tuna melts for lunch.

-a story of childhood memories as related to a friend