Celebrating 100 Years

We'll be washed and buried one day my girl
and the time we were given will be left for the world
the flesh that lived and loved will be eaten by plague
so let the memories be good for those who stay

I sat in the park today helplessly swatting at mosquitoes as I read. The weather was perfect, the sky the color of the ocean, and a slight breeze to keep the heat of the sun at bay. Then I heard it. The scream of the little train. The scream I had heard throughout my life. I am 7 again. I am outside the blood red barn house, waiting for my chance to enter. Upon crossing the barrier I make my way down the orange lit aisle, and find the perfect seat. Parents and children alike board along with me. Soon we're off, the tracks leading the way, and the whine of the train bringing the passengers and passerbys to attention. Before long we reached it. The thing I still can see as bright as day. The awkward black plastic tunnel. The place where the girls pretended with joy to scream in fear of the the blackness; the place where the boys pretended with joy to cover their ears in annoyance.
I see that cheap, unnatural tunnel as I round the park, with the muted claps and cheers of a baseball game in the not-so-distant distance. My pace is quickening. I'm at a brisk walk as I pass the carousel, which is still planted firmly on the pedestal that Burlington placed it on however many years ago. The loud clang of the bells and the low om-pa-pa toot of the pipe organ overcomes my thoughts. I'm 7 again. I hurdle myself impatienly through the gate, hunting the petrified animal I find most appearling. Today it's an ostrich. I grasp the brass pole with anticipation. The antiquated top lurches as it forces its heavy load into motion, slowly builds up speed. Faces outside the fence begin to blur slightly, but I don't notice. I'm enjoying the steady rise and fall, the whirl of colors in the mirrors, the Victorian style paintings in the ceiling.
I slam the door on my memories, and my car, and rev up the engine, as I hastily try to get out of the park without crying. I drive and drive. I come to the stop where there's a asylum/old folks home across the street. The old people are all sitting under the tree, having died there who knows how long ago. I turn my head away in disgust and fear. Curse you Mother Nature; such feelings on a day like this?