South florida’s mountains

South Florida’s mountains are man made constructions. Little gates mark divides between roof-peaked plots, houses curve and mosey along coastline, forming valleys of messy green hair which then 

plummet 

into a lake. Dark green leaves on bushes and forests partition the land, saying, “Inside my walls is a family you can’t see.” 

Years ago, I could see, see the flat plains of grass blanket the ground between houses. See South Florida’s mountains unchained, undeveloped, as their inhabitants pitched decorations and games. I tried to run into the lake when I was two. I ran too far into the open land. 

My family was the first to put up gates. 

Today, the lever on our gate has rusted into a lock. I never journeyed the open plain. I never ran across with friends with my arms swinging. I never rushed home from school to congregate with the neighborhood kids. I never journeyed my open plain. 

Today, the grass inside our gate is wilted. Our neighbors have walls. 

Today, I step onto the balcony for the first time in four years. Pellets caught in thin, silk webs coat mossy textured beige walls. Walls which indent and push out; walls with a bluish-grey barrier which rattles when I touch it. 

Today, I step onto the balcony and take in the new construction hidden behind steel and ecology. I see a pool I’ll never swim in, a flat top with a basketball hoop I’ll never run on, and a trampoline hidden behind the valley with children bouncing unguarded. I try not to eye them. The breeze on the balcony flutters my eyes. 

They could’ve been new friends.