by Ryan Kok

Created on: April 20, 2009

The lamppost cast a yellow glow on the street

I always have fond memories of blues and yellows.
It was that evening sky. The sun had set, but there was still a final inkling of barely blue light over the trees that towered above our street. And seemingly coming out of that background, the silhouettes of children would be playing underneath the inviting yellow glow of the lamppost. It's as if we were creatures of the night. Shadow people. Our silhouettes danced around in the yellow light, only to retreat back into the blue, returning to the void from whence we had come. It's no wonder that in every game we played, we always used the light as our home base. There was something about it that even if we were transported to some place far far away, as long as we had that lamppost nearby, we would still feel at ease. I guess it wasn't our home base so much as it was our home.

Those times playing under that light remain with me as some of my most vivid memories, much more than mere fleeting images. I remember the smell of the freshly cut grass, the glisten of white light as cars turned onto our street, and the laughter and screams of my friends as we ran through the yards, seemingly always trying to get back to that home base, no matter what game we happened to be playing. Our parents would usually be standing around in somebody's driveway nearby, talking about whatever it was that parents talked about. It didn't
matter. We paid them no attention. On those late summer evenings with the bruised sky above us, we were free. And even though I am now much older, I feel no wiser. If I were so wise, then I can't help but feel that even now at my age I would still be playing under the comforting glow of that light.

It wasn't in particular a very visually striking light. In fact, the thing was rather ugly. It was a big plastic-looking gray pole, maybe six or seven inches in diameter. It was probably twelve feet tall, although my memories of its height seem to constantly change. Sometimes it towers above me while at other times not so much. I guess that's to be expected. I'm not always six feet tall in these memories like I am now. And my depth perception has always left something to be desired. After all, when you're wearing bifocals at the age of four, that's typically a bad sign.
The top part of the pole, the part with the light in it, had a wonderfully clich 1980's look to it. It looked as if a tiny little flying saucer had just gently set up shop on top of the post. It would

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