A Tuesday morning, and I'm sitting on a bench at my local park, watching the kids play on the swings, and wondering at what age does it all go wrong. Flashing back to my own childhood; an indifferent grip on the monkey bars; spinning on the merry-go-round to the point of nausea; suggesting to the boys that we play mortician instead of doctor. The idea of play would only take hold in my life as a teenager and adult, as a means to control and suppress a powerful imagination. The Tuesday morning is splendid and the sky is blue and cloudless. I sigh and wipe away a maudlin tear.
She stands beside me, arms akimbo, frowning.
"Look at that," she says, pointing her chin toward playground apparatus. "That slide is not up to code."
I look around to see who she is talking to, and realize it's me.
"Whose your child?" she asks.
"I don't have any kids."
"Why are you watching us play, then?"
I suddenly feel very conspicuous and guilty for no reason. I response the best I can. "The last time I checked this is a free country. And who says I'm watching you? Don't be so precious."
She squints and folds her arms. "Look at that slide. Do you think that incline is 30 degrees? I'd say it's more like 40 degrees. And what about the slide exit edges? They're rusted. I'm writing a letter to my councillor. This is not safe."
She is a child of around eight years of age. She has brown hair and is wearing a jacket that is emblazoned with the words L'il Punk on the back. She has pierced ears and her diamond studs flash in the sun. She takes a sip of Global Villager Kombucha from a glass jar.
I fold my arms as well. "Have you been on the slide?"
She snorts. "Are you kidding? I wouldn't be caught dead on that contraption. It's a public structure, maintained by the city. Or correction -- I may be caught dead on that structure -- if I slid down it."
I am growing tired of this killjoy. "Go play with the others now."
"You say 'the others' like they're aliens."
"I did not."
"Yes, you did." She wags a finger at me. "Do you have a problem with me reporting this violation of code to the authorities?"
"I don't care."
"Well, maybe you should," she admonishes, "it's people like you who allow our public property to fall into disrepair."
"I thought you wouldn't be caught dead on the slide?"
"Well...I..." her voice trails off and she looks over at the swing set. I feel a little bad about questioning her motives. I hope she won't cry. The kid clearly wants to engage me in a substantive conversation, but I want none of it because it's interfering with my brooding. Then she spins around, red-faced.
"'I'll go back on the swings now. But I'm not happy about it. This doesn't hold a candle to Universal Studios. Something needs to be done about the state of the world"
She trudges over to the recycling receptacle and tosses in the kombucha beverage. She smooths her long hair into a ponytail and heads over to the swings.
This kid needs some serious cheering up, I think. She's too young to be jaded.
I make my way over to the swings and take a seat beside her.
"Is it okay with you if I play on the swings for a bit?"
"I don't care. It's a free country," she says.
We swing, the squeals of delight from other children filling our silence.