Pieces of Hope: A Collection

Like Children

Description:  My third flash fiction piece. What's it about? Well, you'll have to read to find out ;)  Dedicated to the victims of the shooting in Boulder, Colorado.    

I breathe deep. It's a fine spring evening. A breeze caresses my face and whispers words of peace.

This was just what I needed. Deadlines had been pressing on me all week. But finally, it was over. It was the weekend.

In hopes of easing my stressed out mind that couldn't seem to step out of "I need to get this done," mode, I had decided to take a walk in Endwin Park. Already, I could tell I'd made the right choice.

It's a Friday evening and no one else is there. They're all out partying or something like that. Not me. No, I'm out here watching the ducks float peacefully on the pond and wishing I had something to feed them.

Up ahead is the playground. It's the only playground in the park. My siblings and I always loved to play on it.

As I pass it I hesitate, then look around. No one is here. No one would see.

With a smile I step over the cement curb and onto the gravel. The familiar sound of the pebbles crunching beneath my feet greets me like an old friend. Nostalgia hits me.

I place my hand on the ladder that leads up to the slides. "Hello, you old thing," I say fondly. The white paint has worn off its rungs where small hands and feet had climbed it over the years.

I sigh and grip it, pulling myself up. This used to seem so big and tall when I was little. I climb up it and onto the platform.

To my right is a tube slide. That one was always my favorite. And to my left is a another tube that leads to three other slides.

I crawl into the tube slide and whoosh down it. When was the last time I did this? I reach back, but I can't remember.

I climb up the ladder again. This time I crawl on hands and knees through the tube. I pause and trace something scratched in the plastic. It was still there, after all this time.

I emerge onto another platform. There's three twisty slides in front of me. One has bumps, one has stripes, and the last one is smooth. The bumpy one was my brother Ben's favorite.

I slide down it, remembering what it feels like to be carried by gravity. I laugh and run, yes run, back to the ladder to do it again, this time one the striped one. Then a third time on the smooth one.

One part, my responsible, do things by the book, mature part, protests. "This is silly," it whines. "So childish. You've outgrown this by now. What if someone sees you?"

And the other part, the part of me that's really still a child, shouts with joy. "Yes! Run! Feel the joy of movement! What is sitting at a laptop compared to this? And who cares who sees! Let them see!"

I climb onto the platform with the three slides again. But this time I latch onto the monkey bars. I used to be the queen of the monkey bars.

Now, swinging out into the open space frightens me.

But my long suppressed adventurous side urges me on. With a firm grip I push off the platform. My arms take my weight.

I hang there for a moment before letting go and grabbing the next bar. Then the next one, and then the next one. My arms burn by the time I reach the end, and my progress is jerky.

I turn around and try again. And again. And again. By the fifth try I've mastered them. I have my old touch back.

I step down off the ladder and look around. My eyes land on the swings, the sunset glinting off the chains. My mature side weakly protests. But I shove it aside. What society have we built where we cannot play as children without being judged?

The dirt is worn away at the bottom of each swing from endless scuffing of feet. I pick the middle one and sit down into it, grasping the smooth chain. Using my foot I rock my weight back and swing forward.

Within moments I'm swinging back and forth with abandon, wind rushing by my ears. Oh, it'd been too long since I'd done this! I had always loved to swing.

My smile spreads bigger as I remember a game my siblings, especially Ben, liked to play. We'd pump our legs until we reached peak height, then we'd let go and fly out of our swings. For a few thrilling seconds we were airborne and weightless. Then we'd hit the ground and roll. We never thought about breaking an ankle, we ran back and did it all again.

The air pulls my hair back as I swing forward. I brush my doubts aside as I ascend. I let go of the chains and slip out of the seat.

For a moment, I am flying.

And I am young again.