My mom used to take me to front of our neighborhood when I was little, where I’d play on a giant rock while we waited for my dad to come home.

The rock wasn’t somewhere I could traverse on my own, past the boundaries my parents had set. I liked it best in May, when the smell of the flowers was new and the taste of spring rain lingered in each breath of air.

One side of the rock sloped downward sharply, more fun than slides. Bumpy rock beat even metal surfaces any day, and slides weren’t the secret escape out of my castle.

If I flatted out against the top with my belly scraping the rough rock, I could hide from anyone below. I kept watch on everything around me. No one could attack the castle with me on the lookout.

Of course, I mostly only had squirrels cracking open nuts and the funny guy in the house across the street who sat in his garage all day and yelled drunkenly at the television to hide from, but that didn’t matter. It was my kingdom.

I drove past it last year.

The rock came up to my knees.