Often times I wish I were a statue: trapped infinitely in one pose, watching others carefully, as their lives pass by me, but I remained unchanged.
I wouldn’t be a quiet statue, a reverent, careful, memory statue.
I’d be loud.
I’d be trapped in Columbia’s Jamboree.
If I were forever rooted in one spot, I’d like to be like the sly cat, satisfied alligator, upturned rabbit, unfortunate gecko and sarcastic frog that play their instruments every day on the grounds of the Boone County Courthouse.
This statue watches my city. It watched me grow from a tiny tot who climbed all over the gator’s banjo, to a zitty pre-teen who posed awkwardly in front of them and now to a fully-fledged Columbian who understands these wise creatures.
The animals of Jamboree watch my city. And if I were a statue, I, too, would be contented to sit there with a silly grin plastered on my face through rain and snow and chaotic Missouri hail just to see the changes.
I think it would be easier to be a statue because I wouldn’t cry as seniors left my city; I wouldn’t worry as money for the town got tight.
I would be satisfied to attach my happy eyes on the skyline and my iron feet to the pavement and know that this city, my city, would be all right.
Jamboree knows. Jamboree has seen, and Jamboree will stay frozen there, in front of the Courthouse, long after I am gone.
As much as I call Columbia my city, Columbia is the statue’s city, forever.
By Maria Kalaitzandonakes