This Used To Be My Playground
I see my playground out the windows every morning as I come downstairs for breakfast. She's an old lady now, a ghost of what she used to be. But what is lost in luster, is made up for in character. Even though no one has used the playground in years, no one will take her down. She's become a permanent resident of the backyard. And the memories she evokes, children for my parents, a place to play for my brother and me, are too valuable to my family. No one has the heart to take her down.
My grandpa built the playground with his own two hands when I was about six, made especially for my brother and me. Grandpa even made us both individual swings. Mine was a box seat, though it looked like a crate with a sliding safety bar. I was too small to have a regular swing, but it suited me just fine. My brother's was a normal swing; a simple piece of wood attached to ropes. Connected to the swing set was the main fort that stood about ten feet in the air. The monkey bars were on the right and to top it all off, there was a slide on the back of the fort. She was handmade perfection.
We used the playground all year long as a house for my Barbies, a pretend home for myself, and even a campsite for my brother and me on warmer nights. We would set up a tent in the middle of the fort and attempt to sleep there for the night. Most of the time we didn't make it and ended up back in our own beds. In the fall, I harvested flowers, nuts, sticks, rocks, anything I could find and stored them there. The winter transformed the slide into an alpine jump that almost killed my brother and me many times. A tree blocked our landing area and brought our slides to an abrupt stop.
I learned how to walk on top of monkey bars, lie down on top of monkey bars, swing on monkey bars. My brother taught me how to climb up slides, run down slides, go down slides backwards. Instead of going up the ladder, I climbed up the support beams. The jungle gym is the root of my dare devil obsession which has led me to try mountain climbing, rappelling, parasailing and growing desire to skydive.
But my backyard isn't a playground anymore. The swings are broken, the monkey bars are rusted over, the slide is too dirty to use. The wood has faded and blends in with the grey tree bark behind it. No one has played there in years. Its primary function, a ground to play on, has been forgotten by my brother and me.
The backyard isn't what it used to be. The weeds have taken over and the trees are beginning to die. The deck is swept only occasionally. And the playground is no longer a playground, but rather a fort that's past its prime. The wood is dull, the metal rusted, and she's falling apart. My playground stands out there though, a reminder of days gone by.
by emily
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