Ode to a Playground

httphaskovoplaygrounds.blogspot.com

She looked around and walked to a place with two poles stood. Poles with rusty lumps. She held those rusty poles. The wind blew her hair.
“Higher, Tammy, higher, hahahaha.”
“Are you sure, Story? I’ll swing you to the sky! Hahahaha.”   “Hahahaha, c’mon.”
Swiiiiingggg….
“Be careful, Students! Don’t swing too high!”
“Ok, Miss Ida.”
“Ready, Story? Here you are. Hahahahaha.”
“Don’t swing too high! Tammy! Story!”
Swiiiiingggg….
“Aucht!” Story opend her eyes because she hurt her fingers. She held the poles too tight. Those poles used to be a swing. A toy that she’d never missed to play with Tammy, her favourite friend. She put his bloody finger in her mouth and sucked.
“Where’s Tammy now? Is she still ‘crazy’?” Story asked to herself and smiled.
horizontal_divider“Where’s Tammy? Where’s Tammy, Miss Ida?”
“She’s got flu, Story. She can’t play with us today,” Miss Ida said.
Story ran out the class.
“Hey, Story. Where’re you going?” Miss Ida asked, but Story kept running.
Story came to her mother who always waiting for her outside the class.
“Mama, I don’t want to play today. Tammy doesn’t come,” Story said.
“But you can play with Meti, Susi, and other friends, right?” Story’s mother said.
“I want Tammy!”
“Be a sweet girl. C’mon. Your friends’re waiting for you in your class,” mother said.
Mother accompanied her to the class, but Story didn’t want to get in. Story held the class door.
horizontal_dividerStory stood on the place that used to be in front of her class door. The door that she held tightly because she didn’t want to get into the class without Tammy inside it. The door that was sticked with students’ paintings. The door that she and Tammy played then she got her finger smashed in the door.
“Whoaaaa, Mama,” Story cried.
“I didn’t hurt her, Miss Ida,” Tammy said.
“It’s ok. I’ve told you not play with the door. Story, don’t cry. I’ll treat your wounds in the teacher’s room. Please go with me,” Miss Ida said.
“No, I want Mama. It’s hurt. It’s hurt. Whooaaa.”
“Ok, ok. Let’s go to your mother outside.”
“Mama, I don’t want to study. My finger, Mama. It’s hurt,” Story cried.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Ida. She doesn’t want to go back to the class,” Story’s mother said.
“It’s ok. Her finger is not bleeding. She only got bruise, but of course it’s hurt her.”
Story didn’t go back to the class. She sat near the class with her mother.
horizontal_dividerStory closed her eyes and heard children’s laughing while singing the ode. The ode that’s very familiar to her.

The most wonderful garden is only our garden
The most wonderful garden is only our garden
It’s the best garden to play, with our many many friends
That’s our playground garden, our kindergarten

She heard Miss Ida called the children to stop playing and asked them to get into the class. “Story, Story, get into the class!” Story heard her teacher called her name. The voice was getting closer and closer. She shocked. She opened her eyes and looked for the voice source. Nothing, but silent, a wide ground with ruins and rusty poles.red_crayon_line_divider

Advertisements

One thought on “Ode to a Playground

  1. It’s my #28 writing. I’m trying to follow WordPress’ 365 Days of Writing Prompts.
    #28 January 28 Ode to a playground
    A place from your past or childhood, one that you’re fond of, is destroyed. Write it a memorial.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s