The zoo

Isn't it funny how old stomping grounds contain memories. They waft up through the dirt when you step on them to help you relive a moment. But it's hard. Because the neighborhood is transformed. Houses where the bike ramp was. A library consuming the field that I tossed a football around in. Pavement where there was none. Fences to keep me out of places where I freely climbed trees or one time, slid in the mud on a hot summer day when a hose was broken (only to get yelled on home by the groundskeeper). The ghost of a boy I used to play with.

I visited the Folsom Zoo with Z and my parents for their annual Christmas lights event. The Lion's club helps every year. My dad's been a lion for 30 or more years. They do good things. I should do good things like that.

It was quite beautiful, lights on anything that stood still. A couple animals were out, like the hooting owl. I forgot how big that humble zoo has gotten. While enjoying my family and the magic I let memories flow through my mind. Not of the zoo so much as the whole area. For this was the stage of my childhood. I saw my old house and superimposed fruit trees into the yard that my grandpa planted. Heard our echos of playing at sea or surviving lava on rafts and rocks larger than life. Being afraid of the little graves by the train tracks. The stupid swing accident that still haunts my health. Black widows. Poison oak. Rattle snakes. Rodeos. Adventures on the cliff. The lion that roared to me in my bed. Death-defying big wheels down the hill. I can still hear those fat plastic tires, picking up speed on the unpaved road, holding my breath in a kind of prayer that play time wouldn't end in blood and gravel.

But nothing stays the same, especially around here. Where were the bones hiding under the new growth? And all these people in my park. They can't know. They moved here and it's just a zoo to them. Trendy because it's all rescue animals. And that makes them feel better, and maybe even proud. But how can they be proud of something they inherited. All these people are tourists. They didn't grow up knowing about the woman who started it all, when it was a struggling zoo others made fun of. Their dads didn't have powers here. There's no respect for history, or struggle, or how far its come, because they came now. They take it for granted. They'll go home with their Starbuck's cups and post their selfies on Facebook, nothing etched in their souls.

But who am I? I didn't build this zoo. I didn't plant that grass. I didn't feed those bears. I used this place for my own selfish purposes, just like everyone around me.

I'm a tourist too.