Playground Love.

Air.

Bike riding today.
Spent some time at the park.
[A year ago today... baby, it's weird outside.]
--strangely, the same thing applies to today as well.

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My sister was somewhere in that park, either on one of the two shiny metal slides or the dark brown wooden structure connected to it, hiding on one of the three levels. The top level had an aging fireman's pole straight down to the ground, which was covered with damp woodchips from the rain earlier that afternoon. I love wooden parks, there don't seem to be too many left. Playgrounds are fake and bubbly now. Schools and public parks have demolished the metal and wood of the past, replacing them with our recylced plastic. Our playgrounds are made from the beer cans we drank from and disposed last year. They have become bright colors of orange, red, blue, yellow, and green, decorating smooth steps, slides, walls, columns, and seesaws. The slides are shorter, and cause static. The walls of the equipment are now decorated with tic-tac-toe games and mazes with a plastic knob in the paths to move around. No more rugged walls with splinters. No more burn from a metal pole. No more rusty metal chains. No more roughness and life. So while my sister was hiding in that ancient park, I was on the swingset nearby, not really swinging but sitting there on the black plastic with my hands on the silver, rusted metal chain, watching the other kids in the park. My eyes mainly followed my sister and one little boy who seemed to be following her around. My sister is two years younger than me. The boy seemed half my age--about six years old, with bright green eyes and freckles. She came out from behind one of the wooden walls of the playground structure, walked over to me and sat on a swing next to me. The boy followed, kicking woodchips and eventually sitting on the ground in front of us. I'm not sure what words were exchanged between my sister and I, but the boy stayed near us and listened. He babbled about things I couldn?t really understand, and to no one in particular. My sister stood up from the swing and ran over to a slide; the boy stayed. I continued to sit on the swing and watch people, ignoring him. Then he looked up at me and asked, "Where are you from?"

"What do you mean?" I had a gut feeling that I knew where this was going.

"You talk different." He picked up a woodchip and flicked it on the ground.