“The Playground”

A memoir.

By Sara McDermott

No ten-year-old spends more time at the neighborhood playground than I do.  It is just a dusty old yard at the public grade school but, to me, it has everything – ping-pong, crafts, a little pool, an old tennis court with no lines painted on it, and a fenced off section with swings and a jungle gym.  I consider the chuty-chute and merry-go-round too babyish, but the swings are still my idea of a good time.

I like it best on a day like this.  It is late in the season, and most of the kids have tired of the place.  The counselors have gone, and the games are all put away.  I can wander around by myself, and on this day I am completely alone.

There is a chill in the air that tells me fall is just a few weeks away, and the wading pool has dirty looking cold water standing in it.

I am slightly bored.  It is almost supper time and I should be heading home, but I  hate to leave so I swing aimlessly, scuffing my feet in the dirt under the swing.

I like to get a swing going by standing on the seat and “pumping up”, so I place my fingers around the thick chain that holds the wooden swing and, like a monkey, pull myself up until I am standing on the seat.  The counselors discourage this when they are here, but they’re gone now and I am free to see how high I can go.  I push a few times to get started and take a better grip on the chains.   I push harder until the swing is swaying easily, and I can see my shoes up in front of me on the forward swing.  I push harder yet, and I go so high I am almost horizontal.  At the very top of the arc I can feel the chains relax slightly, and I hold on tight.  I lay back with my knees flexed to keep myself steady on the flat seat.  I’m swinging wildly now, daring myself to go even higher, but knowing that soon I will have to lower myself to a sitting position to enjoy the breath-taking motion of the swing as it slows back down.

I will give one last push and then sit down.  I brace to give a good push upward when my foot slips on the wooden seat.  The jolt breaks the momentum of the swing and I am falling straight down with both hands still gripping the chains.

In a hideous split second I make the decision to hold on, and I slide all the way down to land in the dirt under the swing.  My fingers are wrapped tightly around the chains as if welded to them.

Tears stand in my eyes as I pry my fingers from the chains.  I want to cool the fiery pain so I soak my hands in the wading pool while I consider my next move.

If I go home now I will have to pretend I’m not hungry at supper time, but if I stay someone will come to look for me.  I decide I can pretend I’m not hungry and drag my self home.

I keep a very low profile for a day or two.  I get by at first by keeping my hands down and not playing outside much.

My mother finally notices that I am keeping my hands to myself more than usual.  I can move my fingers but not well enough to fool her.

The swelling has gone down but I am taken to a doctor anyway.  The harm is done.  A few small bones in both middle fingers are broken, but they have already begun to heal.  The doctor says it is better to leave them alone than to re-break the two fingers.  I hold them up and laugh because they look crooked at the top.  The doctor laughs too, but my mother doesn’t.

My sore hands heal and I forget the pain, but I have two slightly crooked fingers as a life-long reminder of my high-flying afternoon, alone at the playground.