The Line

The chalk line glowed in the fading light,

white against green,

dividing the field into

in and out,

caught and safe,

yours and mine.

A kid stood at the line

trying to decide

if one foot in and one out

meant he was inside

the rules or outside them,

if the agreement we'd all made

about where boundaries laid

actually meant something.

It did.

We all acted like it did.

We stood on our side

and they stood on theirs

and the chalk line between us

held everything—

held the game,

held the rules,

held the belief that something

drawn in white dust

could be binding,

could make us understand

that this space meant something.

I must have stood like that

a hundred times,

pressing against the line

we'd all called the boundary between

one thing and another,

understanding that a line

is only real

if everyone agrees

to treat it that way.

An old agreement.

An old rule.

The chalk will fade and wash away,

but the field will come alive again

with new chalk,

new lines,

new boundaries,

reminding us all

that we live inside

other people's chalk marks,

and we've decided

they're real.