Story-A-Day #151: Play Ground

PLAY GROUND

It is supposed to be a place of joy and mirth. Even the name itself communicates a happy sense of optimism: Play Ground.

This structure should be crawling in laughing, playing children. Infants should be sliding down the plastic ramps, hands and feet extended to the skies, while the shock of static electricity bristles their hair. Their older siblings should be charging back and forth across the ramparts, fending off imaginary hordes, or leaping from surface to surface without touching the lava sands that separate them.

This should be a place of unmitigated content, but on this cold spring morning, it appears more desolate than anything. A playground is a place for coordination to blossom, for energy to be spent. It is a place where the imagination can run wild and any adventure is possible.

A simple structure such as this can travel the seven seas, fending off legions of attacking pirates with ease. Sure one might have to walk the plank now and then, but it is an easy climb back up the riggings to victory. A simple structure like this can lift off from the ground in a billowing cloud of smoke, explore the cosmos, and touch down on a strange forbidden planet.

There are scores of forgotten dreams buried in these sands, adventures left to be continued on another day; perhaps by a whole new group of youthful explorers. This is a place where potential is built, where even the impossible is attainable. If you listen closely, no matter your age, you can hear the call of the game.

Take this man here: a solitary figure dressed for success. He crosses the empty space, making his way around the battered storm fence. He is in his late thirties, possibly his early forties, and his business-casual attire stands in stark contrast to his muddy surroundings and the lonesome plastic edifice.

He climbs a tiny plastic staircase and surveys the structure: slides: swings, huts and bridges. A look of remorse crosses his face and he slowly makes his way up to the highest point, head hung low.

He pauses at the top, and surveys the broader surroundings: the empty beach, deserted promenade, and vacant stretch of parking lot. He is alone. Not another soul to be seen.

In a sudden burst of activity, he dashes across the rope bridge to the next tower and hurls him self, quite abruptly, down the short plastic slide at its peak.

He stands, a little stiff in the knees, and smiles.

This playground is a vessel. It is the embodiment of youthful exuberance. Even for that older professional, it represents the untapped potential of youth. That is the true magic of these places. As many things as they can be, what they are most is a time machine to the better, halcyon days of youth.