Seesaw

I miss the sound the children make most. As I pass the park now, the sign on the gate reads closed. The empty space surrounded with bars resembles a cage haunted by the missing collection of tropical birds. I recall the faded symphony of high pitched notes that once chirped above the city’s low bass rumble like a chorus of woodwinds. I crave the happy melody that blended into one. Timeless, the song has not changed, reminds me of childhood, Kodak film, steel gray domes crowded with little arms and colorful corduroy pants. I imagine the children migrated someplace else, flocks of kids that used to run freely are now elsewhere, sand jammed in the toes of their shoes, electric energy, strands of hair like feathers pushing upwards, weightless flock flying to land gracefully on each structure. Momentum, whizzing by on a merry-go-round, an abstract painting against the gray fog sky. Hands outstretched pulling each other onboard in perfect echelon. No one left behind. 

I hope wherever the children have gone there is vivid color, a prism of light moving their bodies towards the sun. 

But, most of all, I hope there is laughter.

First published in The Distance of Skin, Poetry in the Time of COVID-19, Spring 2020, City College San Francisco, CA.