Cobblestone Confetti

 Cobblestone Confetti

            Each crackling step of cobblestone led me to a rusted town gate. Crunch, crunch. My feet swooped leaves as I admired the wall that stood giants above my head. It occurred to me that the night was too quiet, and the colorful autumn foliage scattered along the tropical seascape seemed out of place.

            Confused by Mother Nature, I remembered last spring break.  I had spent a few days in this exact spot. Making memories with confetti ice cream in a waffle bowl and the strum of local bands became one of my favorite family adventures.

            Today the tourists seemed quieter and less active among the medieval dungeons, pirate cruises, and haunted hayrides. I window shopped with my gaze set toward the sweet shop where confetti ice cream waited for me.

            “Haunted Hayrides, 7 PM. Discounted tickets here.”

            “Schoolhouse tours, closing soon.”

            “Ding, ding, ding. Trolley trips, five-minute wait.”

            Sales pitches everywhere tried to connect the past to the present.  A school bell interrupted my adventure to ice cream. Quickly, I decided to catch a peek into the old, wooden schoolhouse to entertain the teacher in me. Class was out for the day, so I casually strolled around the courtyard imagining what recess would have been like in the 1700s.  Would school-age children play tag? Hide-n-seek? Or would there be chores to complete before a math or reading lesson?  My mind pictured past school days before I noticed a faded hopscotch game scribbled on the dirt covered brick ground.

            I grabbed a rock from around the well and tossed it toward the chalk drawn numbers and shapes.  “Excuse me, may I play?”  I thought I was alone.  When I turned around, I saw a girl that looked about eight or nine. My eyes darted from the girl to the game then to a couple who walked into the courtyard.  The lady smiled and nodded, so I assumed she was the girl’s mother and comfortable with us talking.  

            “Sure, do you have a rock?”

            “I have something better.” She reached into a simple, earth toned smock and pulled out a round gold coin.  “I’ll go first,” she squealed. The coin tossed high into the air and spun four times before resting on the number five. “Five!” She sang, “Skip, scotch, hop,” before landing on square number five.

            I tossed the coin, Clang. “Three!”  I hip and hopped my way to three less graceful than Ms. Energetic. Standing close to her five, she cheered me all the way to my three.   We tossed the coin and hopped our way to the finish line.  Somewhere in between start and finish, the couple left.

            Ding, dong. I turned toward the singing town clock. The bass of the bell sounded, and chills entered my bones. With each new chill, winds blew stronger.  I turned back toward my hopscotch game and the girl was gone.  My eyes searched for my play yard buddy, but she disappeared.  The coin in my hand sparkled; I still had her coin.

            Streetlights began to dim, and my memories of past ghost stories awoke my fears.  Placing the coin in my pocket, I power walked toward the lit-up part of town to avoid experiencing any supernatural events.  Crunch, crack, snap.  I picked up my pace on the runway of leaves that led me back to my courage, but not before stopping in front of the city’s graveyard.

My fingertips traced the points and dips of the waist high metal gate as I walked its perimeters. Uncomfortable yet curious I moved toward the entrance and opened it. As the gate creaked its way open a light above me blinked. Looking around for more light, a headstone caught my attention.  It appeared to be covered in silver and gold glitter. When I reached toward the jagged and chipped stone, I realized it wasn’t glitter.  It was a beautiful reflection from gold coins spread along the top of the headstone that caused it to glisten.

A breeze orchestrated a symphonic sound that swept through the circular, half dollar sized coins. I crouched down to look at the inscription. It read: A Beloved Angel, Abigail Collins, December 22, 1741- September 22, 1749.  I pulled the coin out of my pocket and added it to the treasure.  I realized Abigail left this life in the autumn.   The wind grew stronger as I connected my hopscotch game with a ghost to the headstone in front of me.  I looked for the quickest route out of the cemetery to my car. I reached my car and jumped in when I heard:  Ding, dong.

Suddenly, the town lit up as if a fuse had been quickly snapped on a party had begun.

 “Ghost tours.”

            “Live Music.”

            “Pirate Adventures, Argh.”

            “Trolley Trips.”

            My sanity staggered and wanted to go home. I pulled out of the parking lot onto the pavement without crackles or crunches from leaves.  Suddenly, sunlight blinded me, and hot, humid air replaced the cold and the wind. Loud, obnoxious, and high pitch voices interrupted my drive home as bells chimed. Ding, dong.

            “Teacher, wake up.”

            Realizing I fell asleep, I lifted my head and rubbed my eyes.  It took me a minute to realize I was dreaming and to clearly see the giggling faces that invaded my personal space. Bulging eyes stared at me.  “We’re here.”

                “Where is here?” I questioned.

            “Our field trip”

            Spinning back to reality, I sat up and looked around.  Smirking, I looked out the window and thought:  You never disappoint me, St. Augustine.

            “What’s our first stop, Miss?” a curious choir of energy sung toward me.

            “Do you like ice cream?”

Cheers of approval and chants for sugar flooded the bus.

            The too-close- for- comfort little girl sitting next to me reached into her pocket and pulled out around, very aged, gold coin. “Will this be enough for ice cream, Teacher?”

             NO WAY I screamed inside my head.  I calmly smiled and replied, “Yes, Abigail, that will be perfect. Just perfect”

S. Ambrose