Alone she stands, abandoned and forsaken, in spite of her faithful service for generations.
Her walls weep for the children who no longer come to visit but pass her by.
Her youth and beauty have fled with the passing years, but her wisdom remains to haunt her.
Those who loved her speak of her fondly---no one else understands or appreciates her.
"Where are the children?" She cries out in deep sorrow. Those she nurtured come no more.
The wind howls like it always did. The sun sends forth it's rays. Everything is the same as before--
Except there are no children. No one whispering in the seats, no paper airplanes gliding in the air.
No one plays ball or tag or Red Rover anymore on her fields of green. No snow forts or sledding.
No one builds a Maypole and dances merrily around it.The slipper-slide proudly stands waiting--
But no one comes dashing up her steps and zooms down her slick and polished trail.
It too cries out in sorrow, "Where are the children?"
The silence is depressing to her crumbling walls. The piano stands stately at the front of the room.
She always invited young ones to explore her black and white keys and make them jump for joy.
Play along with me she teased as her automatic player rolled out tunes and children swayed and
sang to her lively pace. But it is no more.
Children have deserted her in favor or big flashy city schools where hot meals, vending machines, and sports are the newest thing. She exists only in our memory now. Gone are the ball games, marbles, snowfights, paper airplanes, sack lunches, outhouses, recesses, waxed slipper-slides,
and tricks played on a youthful teacher barely out of school herself.
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