Ghost Graduate

These Swings.

I was late learning to swing. They used to tease me for it. The kids who knew how would run straight to them. They would get on and would rapidly rise higher then higher still, always in control of their momentum. Sometimes the teachers would see me looking at them as they soared and ask me, ‘would you like to go on the swings?’

I would shake my head insistently.

‘Are you sure? Don’t you know how?’

I would shake my head again. The teacher would look at me with what I assume now was sympathy, but in those times if felt like disappointment. Not being able to swing. The shame of it.

I can swing now. But no one else has much time to. They have to go to work. They have jobs. Even if someone did come, we would be swinging at different speeds. Swinging at different heights.

This Roundabout.

When I was here before, it was in the middle of the playpark. The centre of attention. It was raised above the ground, so you needed to step up onto it. I could run fast then, one of the fastest kids in any race. So I would usually want to push. I did not mind if people wanted to sit on it and be spun. I was glad to help, especially when I saw how happy they were. I wonder how successful they are now.

Quite often someone would catch their foot in the gap between tarmac and spinning metal, twisting it. There would be tears. There would be angry looks at the roundabout, or perhaps another pusher. How could you do this to me!? I thought we were friends!?

But it always looked worse than it was. The tears would soon dry and shortly after they would be back being dizzy once more. Our joints were more flexible back then. This new roundabout has sunk into the ground, leaving no gap for twisting limbs. Just as well I suppose. I am fragile now.

This slide.

Any park worth its salt had a slide. But as far as I was concerned, this was the best damn slide ever. The fastest, the longest, the tallest and only for the boldest. I would sometimes spend whole days going down it. The trick was to take handfuls of sand up with you and put it down the slide before you sat down. That really got you flying. I loved the speed.

When I was even braver, I used to sand down the tarmac in between the slides and try to surf down on my feet. I ruined shoes, jeans and even some skin on those descents. But it was all in a day’s work for a brave boy like me.

‘You are so brave’, my Mum would say with one of her brightest smiles. I sometimes forget I am a son. It feels more like I used to be.

Home time.

Except I am home. University is over, as is my education. Ready for the real world, I returned to where it all began. I have a degree now, first class honours. Are you proud of me?

My grade was borderline, but I think they saw me as a good model student. I worked at the Student’s Union. I was Head of Production for the student TV station. Any extra curricular projects the department ran, I would be there. My work did not deserve a first. But I got one. Not that it has done me any good. After all, what use is a degree in the afterlife?

This life after University is not like The Graduate. You don’t float to the Sound of Silence on a sun-drenched pool. You sit on the swings in the cold and the dark. You stare at the new roundabout made for new children. The first children of the 21st century. You sit atop the slide, remembering your greatest hits. Your favourite times, your proudest moments, your best slides. Then you feel the harsh metal below you and you're cold again. The hits come into focus for what they are, memories in the sand. Tinted visions of a time that has ceased to exist. The best is behind you and you feel like nothing you can do will change that and that it’s your fault. And it hurts. It really hurts.

Years have passed, but you did not move.

Then you leave the playpark. From the gate you walk through the grass as it humourlessly tickles your soles. You sit at the stop. You look to the left and then to the right. You sit at the stop and you wait for the bus to collect you, or the void to consume you. Whichever comes first.

There is a bus in 2 minutes. But those boards are unreliable.

by Clem Benson