One November evening I passed by the playground. I remember the playground from my youth, always robust with action. Many children running around carelessly, others playing hide and seek, Little girls giggling while jumping on the trampoline, sliding down the slide, while their brothers were climbing over the gates and bars, and playing cops and robbers. And then they all united on the merry-go-round spinning in the sunset round round round.
Now my eyes stare at the empty playground, no boys climbing, no girls jumping, no moms calling their kids, no laughter no giggles. The silence cries to the heavens and in the background I can hear the slide and swings and climbing bars weeping along. Perhaps the most tragic is the fate of the now void merry-go-round. Her embrace used to be the refuge of the lonely child, and the center of action for the cliques. But now she’s barren. She’s abandoned. The dusk breeze spins the empty merry-go-round, now home to branches and orange and brown leaves – round round round.
That playground is my soul and that merry-go-round is my spirit.