Especially when I was young and bright

there were wild compulsions to tell my newfound friends everything. 

  What a shock then to return to a place gone into full-on warmode.  

  Once school rooms, then bereft of desks.  A woman my age stepped from behind a coat hook area quarter wall.  "You have returned." 

  "Not sure for how long." 

  Expressions unsure of freedom or no.  Pieces and bits of chalk fell from her hand into a box labeled chalkboard chalk.  "What if someone wanted to use the chalk for something else?" 

  Shaking away heavy thoughts to consider me, asking a question.  "I see you've labeled this chalkboard chalk," I scooped some up.  "In America, I have seen children draw on sidewalks with these chalks." 

  "What do they draw?" 

  "Mostly trees in the cities and vehicles in the countryside.  I see you are a smoker.  Do you have an extra cigarette?" 

  "My dear young American friend, there is nothing extra in this place." The feeling of being in a sand-timer or hourglass butting against the vigor of youth, inside me.  "What else do you see?" 

  "I see," eyes dropping on woodplank flooring not unfamilar, like a basketball court, "grief.  Where once, smiles." 

  "The smiles are just put away for a time.  Like the chalk."  Footsteps in a quad outdoors.  "There have been many changes."  She headed for a window.  "Like what?" 

  "Like these," she took fistfuls of long curtains in hand and shook.  Dust.  And dark stains on the backside.  We looked down at people our age in uniform.  "Maybe John still smokes.  Let's go ask him." 

  "My husband.  You know my husband?" 

  "Did you marry John?" 

  She nodded through a wincing.  "Are you hurt?" She shook her head noooo.  Her hand reached for my forearm and she started to pull me gently.  "Let's ask them for cigarettes."  She donned a light sweater and put her pocketbook with the strap across her chest.  I reached the doorway first and started to go back the way I'd come in.  She reached for me again.  "Go slow," she said.  

  In the once neat and polished hallway was graffitti and machine gun spray indentations.  Making way slowly because of physical pain, a woman made a notation on a form.  "I get terrible headaches too."  The woman looked at the scarred walls, "I am sorry.  But I am not a doctor."  I patted her hand on my arm.  

  Down the stairs, one leg unable to bend, and into the brilliant sunlight.  "There is news." 

  "We don't get news here." 

  "Right.  And, John and I agreed best not to talk about religious upbringing, but," the little knot of people our age started towards us.  None of us hugged in the middle of the courtyard.