Lockdown Drill

From Whitefish Review, Issue 24 • 2019

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In my neighborhood when I was a girl,

we’d spend long summer days hidden

beneath the bridal veil, the lilacs,

the bushes that grew round red berries -

our secret hideout, place of sweet

blossom smells, small-leafed branches like a roof,

walls of green, dense shadows for protection.

All day we’d crouch, spying on whatever

went past on the sidewalk – John the Mailman,

Mr. Meisner gardening next door, the pregnant

lady from the apartments pushing a stroller,

the fat beagle on a leash - but they didn’t see us.

We’d pick red poison berries, grind them up

with rocks, add some puddle water and dirt

to make a potion we could feed to the bad guys.

We knew they’d die from it, and we’d be safe.

Today when the announcement comes,

I gather all the children, sit in the dark

behind a locked door at the bottom of the stairs,

try to keep everyone quiet and pretend

we’re hiding. It’s only a practice, I whisper.

The children are confused.

Though only four years old, they know

more than we think they do

about bad things that can happen in a school.

They’ve heard (even if we try to keep it

from them) about men with guns,

boys with guns. I must shush their questions

for long minutes until we get the all-clear.

As I sit cross-legged on the rug, holding

one’s small hand, another child curled on my lap,

I remember those girlhood days,

how we schemed for hours in our backyards,

in charge of the world behind the hedges

until our mothers opened doors that were

never locked and called us in for lunch.

Danger was only a game we could choose to play.