When the lunch bell rings
we rush from stuffy classrooms,
stampede through hallways
that smell of polish and disinfectant
tumble in a jumble down
the double wide staircase,
smooth wood bannister daring
anyone willing to risk the ire
of Mr. Salinger standing guard.
Hungry for sun and lunch
most run to mothers
gossiping in shirt sleeves
ready to ferry their charges
home for lunch
before returning them to school
for the afternoon session.
The walkers, who live close enough
and have permission,
chatter with the frenzy of the newly sprung,
as they make their way home
to apron clad mothers
ready to serve them lunch
when they breach the front door.
I find my sisters by the flagpole
our designated meeting spot
brown bags in hand.
We walk together up the hill
past the castle shaped Episcopal Church
with its seasonal display of fake sheep
and creepy cradle laden baby Jesus’
past the open door of Donatello’s
where wafting clouds of hairspray
and cigarette smoke
make us gag just a little bit when we walk by,
past the circular stone staircase
that leads down to the warren
where Tony, the shoe repair man sits
buried among heaps of leather
banging and stitching and stretching.
Finally, we arrive at Bob’s.
Balding and soft faced,
apron smeared with chocolate ice-cream smudges
wrapped around the beginnings of a paunch
he’s endlessly patient with neighborhood children
mesmerized by this hole in the wall suburban dime-store
its glass candy counter cloudy with sticky finger prints
squeaky metal racks of comic books and Mad Magazines,
every nook and cranny of the store filled
with undiscovered treasure.
From behind the soda fountain counter he smiles.
Mother works at the art gallery in town today
and he’s been expecting us.
We plunk down three in a row
on the red leather stools that twirl
and are too high up for our feet to touch the ground.
What’ll it be girls he asks.
Elevation, February, 2021
Elise Chadwick 