The Game
Kezia Bechtoldt

Back home
we’d trace the lines
out on the ground
with broken tree branches
then used rough gray stones
to mark where our dancing feet
were not allowed to stray

We never had a name for the game
but we recognized the rules
as soon as the familiar grooves
were drawn into the dust

Then we’d
kick up dirt
as if we owned the world

One day
I flew across an ocean
and landed somewhere
clean and civilized—
a land where
children’s playgrounds
confined grass, sand, and dirt
into neat little boxes

I found the lines
for this familiar game
written out on concrete slabs
with bright white paint

Hopscotch, they explained
and I wanted to tell them
that I know
but they only nodded and smiled
as my tongue tripped clumsily

Their smiles confused me
and made my skin feel tight
my joints unhinged
until I stumbled
as if I’d never seen those lines before
as if I’d never played the game
back home