Once, a very, very short time ago, we went to the park. It was, in fact, this morning. I was not at work. I was not typing. I was not sitting at a desk. No, I was at the park. With you.
You were there like you always are, eyes wide and ready to play. What is your favorite piece of playground equipment? The swingset? The merry-go-round? The wooden swinging bridge? The climbing spider web? The precarious teeter-totter? My suspicion is, you love them each for what they are.
As it was an early, gray morning, there were few other children at the park. There was, in fact, only one mother strollering her now-sleeping baby along the walkway; two small dogs walking at the end of two retractable leashes held by one large man with a beard and eyeglasses; and four birds, four feet apart, all in earnest conversation with one another regarding, I assume, the following: the size, shape and color of their breakfast, the variant colors of the summer sunrise, the probability of rain (100%), and the hatching dates of the neighborhood eggs. They were the liveliest bunch of them all, except for you. You sat lithely, listening to their tunes (don't you wish we could talk as prettily as they do?) while trying to touch the tips of their trees with your toes. And I think you did.
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