Memories were falling out: the hours of staring at chairs the color of melted down Tide detergent bottles and the days spent crying on the sauerkraut couch in front of the principal's office. The school's steel skeleton left standing there like a ghost with a solid outline.
Scraps of metal were spread out like icing over the cake of dried mud, with the fence encircling it like a pan made of chain link.
The half moon sinks the color of brown rice, a thousand arcs of water filling it. Paper brown towels to dry our hands. Brown doors carved with hairpins to push past. Brown carpet, wavy strands of it flowing out of the corners where the little kids sat during time out.
They cleared out our desks and chairs. And they only left one tree standing; they pulled up all the rest. They tore down the swing set and the slide. They crawled through the grass with their machines, scraping up the destroyed wreckage.
They took all the grass but they didn't throw it like rice at our playground weddings.