That Concrete Block

           

An old concrete slab in the backyard of a house might not have much of an influence on most people, but to me, it became much more than just an old concrete slab in the backyard of my childhood house. This concrete slab became my companion, my listener, my shoulder, or bolder to lean on. This concrete slab looked exactly how it sounds, it was an old block of concrete in a rectangle that fits in the corner of my childhood backyard. The backyard for most children my age was a place where your imagination could run free and you could run and play are you, please. I enjoyed playing in my backyard every day after school once I had finished my homework for the day. I would venture out the back door and escape into a realm of calm and freedom, a place I could be myself and feel more connected to myself. The backyard sloped down towards a canal and was shaded by a large mango tree in which the branches stretched almost out to touch the water. Our house was an old house, most likely as old as the mango tree so our house had a unique concrete slab attached to the back side of the house, secluded from the back door. I think what made this concrete slab so intriguing to my young mind was that it wasn’t visible from any door or window of our old house, in which my parents couldn’t easily look over and find me sitting there or playing whatever game I had imagined.

 

I was raised by my mother and my dad. Both hardworking and caring parents who only had one daughter, or child in general, which was me. My biological father passed away when I was just six years old. Growing up without him has left me with a lot of uncertainty and confusion, however, I did have my dad as a father figure. I would escape to that concrete slab in my backyard as a place of certainty, that the block was concrete, and would not disappear like my father once did my life. When I could sit on that concrete slab alone, I could feel at peace, like my father could sit there with just me and no one had to interrupt or take the place of that concrete block. I could just sit there and stare up into the sky and ask, “Are you here with me? How was your day? My day at school was good and this is what happened.” When I was alone on the block I could speak openly and not feel pressured to say or think a certain way, and that I could say whatever I wanted to myself or maybe to my father.

 

My parents longed for another child, they tried to have another child from when I was just eight years old (when they were married) up in till my sophomore year of high school when I was about sixteen. My mom was able to get pregnant, however, she would never make it to full term. Again, confused at life and how things were happening, how my father could pass and my parents could not have another child. The only place I felt safe to talk about it, cry about it, yell about it or release how I felt out in the open without my parents or family near was on that concrete block.

 

It’s interesting how just one concrete block can impact a child’s life so greatly, but it definitely did. This block of concrete became my place of comfort, my place of shelter and my place of escape. When I was about fifteen years old, this place that I once played on and acted like it was my stage, cried because it was my place of comfort, was taken away. My dad decided to get rid of the old concrete slab and make the yard look a little nicer, replacing the concrete block with grass. My place of comfort was now gone and what was left was a patch of grass to match the rest of the yard. I agreed with the fact that the yard now looked a little nicer, but it still made me miss that old concrete block. 

 

Personal Narrative Draft Two