text: Personally, I don't think this is the best example of my writing. But my teacher liked it, and I felt like posting something on here. So here we go. - I sat across from the swingset. There’s a boy there. He’s laughing. He’s playing. He’s happy. He ran to the slide. His friends called him. They’re playing Tag. Hide and Seek. Cops and Robbers. They ran to the merry-go-round. They’re playing Spaceman now. He’s blasting off. Snowballs are being thrown, with snow forts as cover. Impenetrable castles, strongholds, citadels to young, effervescent minds. He’s smiling. Laughing. Living. His shaggy brown hair hangs over his blue eyes. His friends tug on the dark strands. Wrestling. Their mothers are talking. His calls for him. It’s time to go. I sat across from the swingset. There’s a boy there. His mother is beside him. “Be careful,” she says. He nods. He looks sad, but the friends call again. He smiles and runs over. The mother walks to the other parents, through a path of budding flowers, green capsules ready to burst from the life inside. The other parents try for conversation, but the boy’s mother is quiet. The boy is laughing. He’s slower. Less energy. The friends notice. So does his mother. She calls for him. It’s time to go. I sat across from the swingset. The boy is there. His mother is beside him. She adjusts his woolen cap and frowns. “Don’t you want to go play?” He shakes his head. His feet dig ditches in the woodchips. She walks back to the other parents, through the now-bloomed wildflowers. Anger flashes through her mind at the thought of something so insignificant living so beautifully. The other parents say nothing to her. Her hair is frizzy. Disheveled. It sticks out here and there. She’s worn out. Exhausted. So is he. His eyelids droop over tired, grey orbs. They’re empty, a thin layer of cloudiness covering them. Haggard. He watches his friends. They don’t notice, or pretend not to. He sighs. His mother comes over and takes his hand. It’s time to go. The other parents begin talking. I sat across from the swingset. My eyes scan the ditches in the woodchips. A quilt of colored leaves lay flattened by young feet, browns and yellows and reds. The friends are there. They’re laughing. They’re playing. They’re happy. The parents are talking. Everyone is smiling. Laughing. Living. The friends are playing Tag. Hide and Seek. Cops and Robbers. They run to the merry-go-round. They’re playing Spaceman. He isn’t.