Our Park

TW: Death, implied animal cruelty

That day it rained in the park we hid from it in the little hut at the top of the slide. I had never seen rain before, only heard about it in Jamie’s stories, his stories never told of the noise rain could make falling on a surface – like the pounding steps of protestors as they run from law enforcement – or the wailing wind it sets loose on the world that makes everything tremble. I had always thought that I wouldn’t like rain much, Jamie described it as something that made your skin wet and slippery like the Carp papa would catch from the river, he’d say that not even clothes could keep it out, that it would seep through them, slowly, bringing its chill with it as it did, until its cold settled deep in your bones and you could barely move due to the numbness. I was right, I didn’t like the rain. Not because of the cold or the noise or the wind, but because of how dark it made everything, the days were always grey, so much so I used to think that the sky was made of ash from a fire, but that day was especially dark. The sky groaned under the weight of large dark grey clouds that rolled over the hills from past the horizon, I watched them as they crawled over our small town trailing a sheet of darkness over it as they did. They looked heavy, full of something; the park grew silent as we waited for something to happen. The swings creaked as they were pushed by a sudden gust of wind that felt damp as it brushed my cheek, the wind had never felt damp, I didn’t even know it could, I looked to her then but she had already rushed over, grabbing my hand she hurried me to and up the ladder that led to the little hut at the top of the slide just as the first drops of rain fell. They were big fat blobs of water that hit the metal slide with a clang before breaking into smaller droplets that raced each other down it. I leant into the thick fur of her coat, it smelt of pinewood and lavender, an indication it had been recently washed. She adored that coat, treasured it above all her other possessions. I still remember how her eyes grew wide with surprise and the gasp that escaped her lips as she drew her hands to her mouth. Oh! Oh, it’s beautiful she exclaimed when papa presented it to her, we watched with beaming faces as she twirled with it, the joy she felt evident in the way she buried herself into the coat. Papa said that it was coincidental fortune he'd managed to find enough badgers to use for it, especially with there being so few of them, she didn’t seem to listen though, too enthralled with her new gift, it was that gift I snuggled into as the rain fell harder. I closed my eyes as I got lost in the pitter-patter of the rain, an otherworldly sound that transported me into the heart of Jamie’s stories; stories about eleven princes and fairy queens and daring knights and the gods and goddesses they enraged, fought, and loved. I opened my eyes to the sound of rustling by the bushes straight in front of us, just past the edge of the play area, it was a fox. Its burnt orange coat bled colour into its dank surroundings and I watched it, ensnared, until it disappeared into the bushes leaving only a grey world in its wake.                

“Why don’t fox kits stay with their parents?” I asked once it disappeared 

“Fox kits?”

“Ye. Jamie says that when they reach a certain age they leave home, chased out by the ones who cared for them. Why?”

“It is nature’s way of things.”

“Nature’s cruel.” She let out a low chuckle like the rumbling thunder above us.

“Indeed, she is.”

“Will I be chased out too? Or will you always be by my side?”

“By your side? Always.”

***

The sun hangs low in the sky like a flat yellow disk, I stare at it from the hut at the top of the slide, its dim light not bright enough to hurt my eyes. It has dipped just above the bushes straight in front of me and I’m almost certain that if I stretch out my hand, I could pluck it from the cold blue of the sky and fling it across the universe. I have said many times, often whilst sitting in this little hut, that she lied to me that day. Sometimes I whisper it, sometimes I scream it and when I have the energy to do neither I say it within myself, so it is caged, trapped by my bones, a truth flowing through my veins, a secret only I get to bear witness to. I try, desperately, to believe it, because then I can be angry at her for leaving me when she didn’t have to, because then I don’t have to feel remorse when I scream to silent stars shimmering in a bleak blue sky that I agree with Jamie and everyone else who called her a fool, because then my tears are justified and valid and all the anger, grief, pain can be directed at her because the world is too big to be angry at. I deeply desire for it to be true, but I know it can’t be, because when I’m at my angriest her voice, a soft murmur on the wind like an echo from the past, drifts to my ears and reminds me: By your side? Always.     

It still feels strange coming back to the park, not many people use it anymore but then again, I guess they never really did. It still looks the same, the swings still stand at the edge of the play area’s tarmac, the monkey bars are still situated a few meters in front of them, and the obstacle course they are a part of is still there. The zipline and seesaw are still at the other end of the play area along with the roundabout and, still standing in the middle, is the climbing frame and the slides that connect together by tunnels and bridges. The hut at the top of the slide is still there too, worn down but still there. That explains the entirety of the park, worn down but still standing, like a strange act of defiance, almost as though the park were alive. Perhaps it is, alive with the memories of the people who have been here, the pieces people leave behind pulsing through its ground, because people do that, at least that’s what Jamie says. They leave a piece of themselves behind, a laugh, a whisper, a tear; it lingers in the air like the scent of a strong perfume, but it never fades, rather it engraves itself into the existence of the place, forever a part of it. He used to say that to me on the nights he’d find me crying, those first few weeks after she died, he’d say all I needed to do was touch the walls or wear her favourite coat and I’d be able to feel her, hear her laugh that sounded like chiming bells. It was a nice sentiment. He was good at that, always saying the right thing. I come to the park often, when no one’s around, I sit in that little hut at the top of the slide or on the swings or sometimes I just stand in the middle lost in the memories of her. I watch the sunset as I rock myself back and forth on the swings, it is cold today.

“Hey! You can’t be here.” It’s not a voice I recognise but it’s also not law enforcement and I take relief in that fact.

“Just five more minutes.” I call back, as my lungs burn against the bitter air, the tremor and hoarseness of my voice giving away my desperation. Typically, I’d stay out here and watch the sunset, one of the few times the sky doesn’t look so grey but is instead an array of pale pink and deep red and fiery orange, and a soft golden glow is cast over the earth revealing for a moment the brightness of its colours. However, curfew has been pushed back today because of the special viewing all citizens are required to watch, that I know I won’t watch, the special viewing that I’ll hide in my room for the duration of trying to block out the monotone voice that will be presenting it, because this special viewing is about the fire she died in.

***

The air had swirled with an unbearable heat that laid on top of you, making it a trying task to move. The wind had ceased and so there could be no respite found in its cool arms, we sat under the shade of trees and played in the currents of the river, both did little to cool us down but offered, at least, a little comfort, a commodity hard to find in the summer months. We’d spend hours in the park on these kinds of days, laying down on the dried-out grass that was prickly on your skin and made you itch. We’d watch the cloudless sky that still, despite being the middle of summer, stubbornly remained an ashen colour. We’d stay there until it got to the later cooler part of the day which would then allow us to play on the zip wire and seesaw and climbing frame.  

“Alright, one more big push.” She called to me, as my swing came back down, she grabbed it, pulled it back and then pushed as hard as she could.

“I can see everything from up here!” I screamed as my legs soared past the tree line and the swing took me as high as it could go. She laughed a full-bellied laugh as she caught my swing and carefully brought it to a halt, soft and bright, just like chiming bells I thought. “Again! Again!”

“I can’t,” she laughed “I’ve been pushing you for the last hour. Come on, let's go sit on the banks.” I groaned but allowed her to pick me up and carry me over, I was most definitely big enough to walk and likely a bit too big for her to carry now but I didn’t protest, and she didn’t complain. I suppose even then she knew.

We watched the cool blue ashen sky melt away into different colours and then watched the shine of the first star’s emergence. 

“Make a wish.” she whispered

“How does it go again?” She let out a soft laugh and turned her face toward me, so I was staring into her blue eyes, as blue as a starlit sky.

“Starlight

Star bright

The first star I see tonight

I wish I may

I wish I might

Have the wish I wish tonight.” She laughed when I joined in with her “ye.” She whispered, “ye, you’ve got it.” I closed my eyes tight and made my wish.

“I wish to come to the park tomorrow.”

“Don’t say it out loud! It won’t come true.” She giggled then gathered me up in her arms and planted a kiss on my forehead. “I’m going to the inner city tomorrow.” She said after a breath.

“The inner city?”

“Hm. There’s a protest, a demonstration at the city square. I’m going to be there.” My throat and chest tightened at this, my breathing became slow and difficult. Jamie had told me about people who went down to the inner city to protest. They don’t come back he’d said as papa held a crying woman weeping over her son who’d gone with some friends to the inner city. Another woman there had mournfully declared that he should never have gone, and I’d ask Jamie why and that’s what he’d said, and as his words played over and over in my head I used them to try and plead with her to stay.

“Jamie says that those who go to the inner city don’t come back.”

“Jamie says a great deal many things.”

“Please don’t go.”

“I’m going for you,” she said as she cupped my face in her hands “so you can have a better world to live in. There are few things more brave, more heroic then to fall for a cause you wholeheartedly believe in.” 

“I don’t need you to be brave! I don’t need you to be heroic! I need you to be my mama. To take me to the park and read me bedtime stories and tell Jamie to leave me alone.” There were tears now, streaming down my face, making it damp. She wiped them away and kissed my cheeks and smiled down at me. That is how I will always remember her, black coils spilling over her shoulders that caught the moonlight in a way that looked like silver was woven into them, skin as smooth and brown as a dark fallow deer that shimmered slightly in the star's milky glow, a soft smile, and blue eyes as bright and brilliant as the starlit sky above us.

The fire could be seen from the edge of the city. Billowing beams of black smoke stretched into an ashen sky whilst wild flames danced manically. It was the first time I’d seen the park so full, people everywhere stood watching as the screaming sirens of fire engines and ambulances rushed past us. It was strange to have so many people in the place I had known to be so desolate, stranger still was the silence that fell over them, no one cried or screamed or showed any form of distress. Rather, there was an easy acceptance, as though for the first time people realised there was nothing they could do. I met Jamie’s eyes and knew in that moment; mama wasn’t coming home. I often think back and wonder how she felt, I shouldn’t, Jamie says I shouldn’t, that it will only make me upset, but I do it anyway. I wonder whether she saw the smoke first or felt the heat of the flames, I wonder if she saw them cornering her, I wonder if she was scared or content with her fate. I always hope the smoke got her first and she was unconscious for most of it, and I know it’s selfish, but I always hope her last thought as she closed her eyes was of me. The fire raged for two days, its presence always in the back of our minds, sometimes embers or ash would float past our windows or land in our gardens carried by a solemn wind and if it didn’t bring those it brought the smell of something burning. I can still smell it sometimes like a phantom of the past haunting me.

The funeral was quiet, we could only bury a coffin because her body was indistinguishable amongst the remaining ashes, people we didn’t know showed up because they understood, they didn’t know her, but they understood, and when they bowed their heads and tears fell from their eyes, I realised this was a collective experience, something we all felt personally.

***

It has been too long since she died and even now forgotten promises of peace still reverberate inside people’s heads waiting to be remembered. I once again sit in the hut at the top of the slide hiding from the rain like we did all those years ago, I come here every day. sometimes I believe she will appear as I sit here, wearing her badger skin coat that smells of pinewood and lavender, that she will bring me close, tuck me into her side and tell me it was all a bad dream, that she’s still here. It’s raining harder now, and the slide is dripping with raindrops, I look at them as they trickle down and collide into each other and throwing everything to the wind I slide down the slide I have long since outgrown. I laugh as I lay there at the bottom of it, the rain pelting my face. I climb to the top of the climbing frame which is no longer a challenge and simply sit there looking out at my town. I look absurd but I don’t care because I’m finally beginning to understand what she meant when she said, ‘There are few things more brave, more heroic than to fall for a cause you wholeheartedly believe in.’ she wasn’t just talking about the protestor’s cause, but about me, about Jamie, about Papa and our community. Maybe I’ll get to see the world she died for, maybe I won’t, but I’ll continue to come to our park every day and help create it, help create the world she wished for me to grow in because it’s something she wholeheartedly believed we could achieve and I’m beginning to believe it too.