The playground wasn't there at first. The village began construction once I was past the years of baby swings and teeter totters. At this point, my friends and I were acrobats and explorers. We sat on top of the monkey bars, hopped from structure to structure, and shimmied down the fireman's pole on the side. We played Cherry Drop and Hot Lava Monster and sometimes we would make up games. Sometimes I would go there by myself and read in the tunnel and wonder why homeless people never lived in playground tunnels. I thought that that was what I would do. The playground was situated right in the middle of our neighborhood, and although it divided us into different bus routes (and therefore, different groups of friends), it also brought us together. It was there that we congregated to play softball and to ride our bikes and to play in the clay-sand on the field. We threw stones in the pond and bread at the geese. This was the center of my life. The picture to me is almost comical. The playground is empty, which I don't think I have ever seen - at least not without snow covering everything. The photograph is missing bikes thrown across the ground, nannies on the benches, and children flying in the swings. It's missing life. Who would be enticed to go play at a playground that doesn't look fun? I am entirely baffled.
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