Imperfect Spiral by Debbie Levy

want. Purposefully perambulating. In a few minutes, I’m on Quarry Road, passing the bus stop. And in a few minutes more, I’m upon the scene of the crime. What was I thinking? All roads lead to this site—I almost never have a reason to go the other direction on Quarry Road. Of course I would end up here.
    It looks a mess because of all the roadside memorial paraphernalia that people have strewn about. I count five teddy bears. Six sad little bouquets. (Whose job is it to remove the dead flowers at a roadside memorial?) Three plastic action figures, but not figures corresponding to any hero or villain who’s currently popular. Some kids must have dug into their boxes of discarded toys. One heart-shaped pillow. A bunch ofcards, already yellowing and curling, and a large sign: WE LOVE YOU, HUMPHREY .
    Okay. It’s true that Humphrey was too young and too sheltered to be really known by the neighbors or their kids. But my heart turns in on itself at this stuff. Teddy bears? The kid didn’t have a single one. Action figures? He wasn’t allowed to watch the television shows the figures were based on, and so he didn’t know that he was supposed to care about them.
    My God, doesn’t anyone know that Humphrey’s ambition in life was to throw a perfect spiral? That he loved aliens, specifically aliens of the Bumble-Boo persuasion? Or that, in the stuffed animal department, he passed over teddy bears in favor of turtles and frogs? His parents must know this, but I’m assuming they don’t have anything to do with this collection of junk.
    I keep walking, and soon I’m at the entrance to the park.
Our
park. I could walk on. I do have a destination. But I’m drawn in.
    Here are the Bumble-Boos on the planet of Thrumble-Boo. Here’s the spaceship. The playground is deserted, as usual. I cross the field to the scrubby area where a few old picnic tables and an ancient grill have failed to entice anyone to have a cookout for as long as I can remember. I sit up on one of the tabletops and look around. This park is such an ugly duckling. Yet I’ve always liked it. I don’t remember riding on the springy bumblebees—excuse me, Bumble-Boos—but we have photos to prove that I once did, when I was Humphrey’s age and younger. I do remember spinning around on the roundabout, with Adrian providing most of the propulsion. I feel protective toward thispark. And now, to me, it’s more of a memorial to Humphrey than the collection on Quarry Road.
    Over on the basketball court a guy is shooting hoops, alone. See, that’s another good thing about a run-down park. Not many people come here, so you can get the court to yourself, if that’s what you want. Or, like with Humphrey and me, you can make the playground your own private planet with your own private aliens without interference from other, ordinary human beings.
    It appears I have spoken too soon. I’m about to have interference.
    â€œHey.” It’s the boy from the basketball court. He probably wants to see who’s invading his private domain.
    â€œHey,” I say back.
    â€œI’ve seen you here,” he says. “I couldn’t tell it was you right away. But I’ve seen you here. You play catch with that kid.”
    He saw me? I guess I did notice some guys playing basketball when Humphrey and I were here. But barely. Hey, I was very busy. I was babysitting. Much too attentive to my responsibilities to notice some high school guys sweating on a court all the way across the field, even if one of them was unusually nice-looking.
    â€œHe’s too young to throw a regular football,” he says.
    â€œI didn’t know you could be too young to throw a ball,” I say.
    â€œI mean, they make smaller footballs for younger kids,” he says. “They can get their hands around them better. So theycan get the grip right and actually throw the way a football’s