What It Becomes

I walked past the playground

after dark. First time in years

I've seen it like this.

The swings weren't moving.

The slide was just a shape,

dark against the darker sky.

The jungle gym looked like

something waiting, like

the equipment was holding

its breath.

The mulch smelled different—

not like sun-baked wood anymore.

Like wet earth. Like something

breaking down when no one's

watching.

No sound. That was the thing.

No chains creaking, no feet

pounding, no children

fighting or laughing or crying.

Just the absence of it,

so complete it almost had

weight.

I stood there. The shadow

of the jungle gym stretched

across the ground like it was

trying to reach something.

The metal was still there—

still solid, still waiting—

but it had become something

else. Just geometry. Just

the skeleton of a place

designed for motion.

Without the children,

without the light,

it was just a body

holding its breath.