The End Of the Innocence

The End of Innocence

Ren Miller

7/99


Tracy Vetter took a long drink of a pale bubbling beverage from a tall fluted crystal wine glass and sat down. On the glass topped coffee table in front of her lay a well organized though slightly worn scrapbook. Pictures and articles carefully cut out and pasted in from the time she was 13 years old -- was it 13? She flipped open the cover reverently and checked the date printed so very neatly in still childish writing under the first yellowed picture. Yes, 13.

She remembered sitting in a tight circle with her girlfriends as they all giggled madly over the latest additions to the book. They all innocently sighed over pictures they cut from magazines and newspapers of a dashingly handsome young man they didn't know and probably would never know.

Over time the interest of the other girls had waned as they moved on to other handsome wavy haired bare chested idols but still Tracy kept up the scrapbook until one day she finally gave in and filed it away in a trunk with various school yearbooks, barely written in but still securely locked diaries, novels about horses and adventure stories about blond girl detectives who drove convertibles and had wealthy loving families.

Three years ago the trunk had been unceremoniously dumped in the middle of her living room floor by her father, "Your mother is cleaning out the attic."

It took her a while but she finally came to understand that 'cleaning out the attic' was code for "We're selling the house" which of course was merely more code for "We're getting a divorce."

Later that day as she went through the treasures that she'd carefully stored away so many years before she methodically separated them into two neat piles, one to be donated the other to be thrown out. In her mind there really wasn't a need for any other pile. She was well organized and level headed, if she hadn't needed any of these items for this long, she simply did not need any of them. Then at the very bottom encased in a plastic bag, she found her scrapbook and it made her smile. She sat on the floor in between her two very adult piles with her long legs crossed and looked through the pictures that had been cut and pasted into these yellowed pages by a younger blessedly innocent version of herself. A time when the most important things in her life had been that weekend's slumber party and who Tommy really 'liked.'

When she came to the last picture she chuckled at the irony that at this very moment there on her small dining room table was a glossy magazine that had just been delivered through the mail. The cover was of the very same young man that had made that little blond girl sigh so long ago.

Clutching the book she stood, stepped carefully over her two piles, walked over and picked up the magazine. It was a wonderfully romantic picture of a stunningly handsome man and his beautiful bride leaving a tiny chapel. Like some mythical knight in a half forgotten tale he was gallantly kissing her gloved hand as his new wife glowed with happiness and Tracy couldn't help the tiny sigh that escaped her lips as she looked at it, "Must be fate!" She announced as she sat the scrapbook down and proceeded to carefully remove the cover picture to be pasted in it's proper place on the new last page.

It was now three years later on a hot, humid summer night and she had finally turned the television off. There was no new news only the same sad picture of a little boy saluting the coffin of a Father that in the future he wouldn't even remember and that same worn scrapbook was once again open to another new and this time very final last page.

She stood ran her fingers though her fine blond hair and stretched. Perhaps some music would be nice.

Turning on the radio the smooth voice of a talk radio host washed over her, ". . . and so children, you zealously mourn one that you never knew as though he were one of your own. Why my children? Call me and share your reasons, try to explain this to The NightCrawler."

'Why indeed?' her own feelings were jumbled and hard to grasp then her eyes fell on a CD case that lay open and she suddenly understood. Snatching up her phone she quickly dialed and was rather surprised to hear ringing instead of a busy signal, "NightWatch, have you called to share your feelings with The NightCrawler?"

"No, I - I can't. But, if you could -- maybe play a song?"

"My dear, this is 'hardly' dedication hour."

"Please, I think the words of this song can explain how I feel far better than my own could."

Silence for a moment, had he disconnected her?

"Very well, the name of the song my dear?"

It came out in a tiny whisper yet he still clearly heard, "I see. Thank you caller, I think even 'I' now understand."

She slowly hung up and walked back to her couch. The sad strains began as she started with the first page of her scrapbook,

This used to be my playground (used to be)
This used to be my childhood dream
This used to be the place I ran to Whenever I was in need
Of a friend
Why did it have to end
And why do they always say

Don't look back
Keep your head held high
Don't ask them why
Because life is short
And before you know
You're feeling old
And your heart is breaking
Don't hold on to the past
Well that's too much to ask

This used to be my playground (used to be)
This used to be my childhood dream
This used to be the place I ran to
Whenever I was in need
Of a friend
Why did it have to end
And why do they always say


Live and learn
Well the years they flew
And we never knew
We were foolish then
We would never tire
And that little fire
Is still alive in me
It will never go away
Can't say good-bye to yesterday (can't say good-bye)

This used to be my playground (used to be)
This used to be my childhood dream
This used to be the place I ran to
Whenever I was in need
Of a friend
Why did it have to end
And why do they always say


No regrets
But I wish that you
Were here with me
Well then there's hope yet
I can see your face
In our secret place
You're not just a memory
Say good-bye to yesterday (the dream)
Those are words I'll never say (I'll never say)


This used to be my playground (used to be)
This used to be our pride and joy
This used to be the place we ran to
That no one in the world could dare destroy.


As she looked at each picture one last time she was letting go of a part of herself. Putting to rest that little girl who felt anything was possible and believed in fairy tales, handsome princes, beautiful happy princesses and happy endings for all who deserved one.

The turning of each page was like the years of her own life passing by, all the shattered illusions, the lost beliefs.

And as the last note faded away she sadly closed the book, placed it in a plastic bag, put it in a trunk and shut the lid.


end

Music and Lyrics to "This Used To Be My Playground" is the property and the work of Madonna

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