Kristin Hutchinson Homework week 1 April 21, 2004 Sitting on familiar steps, my back pressed against against warm brick, I listen to distant city sounds --
the squeal and honk of traffic down the street, the metallic groan of dumpsters emptying their load, the thunderous roar of a jet as it passes overhead, then fades again, slowly, into the horizon, a thin white string hanging in the sky. Closer to me, the bounce of a basketball, the splash of a fountain and buckets scooping it up, the rise and fall of chatter and children playing in the sun. I am on the playground, behind the big brick bulk of a church, surrounded by walls and a patchwork of fence, carefully mended. This was once a flat square empty lot, paved throughout (I have seen the pictures!) --
but now, it is a different place. I watch, through waves of heat rolling up off hot asphalt, the swaying back and forth, back and forth of a empty swing, its occupant recently departed. Kids scramble up the wooden structures, is it a boat, a house, a castle, a train? and jump into piles of soft wood chips. I see slices of rosy faces peering through the slats, black curls bobbing up and down, a flicker of bright clothing, bare legs and dusty sandals. City kids, they do all right, rustling in the shady branches of an old willow (did nuns nursed it to life, years ago?) or squatting underneath, digging tunnels in the dirt and sand. Some hide behind the weeds and flowers, collecting caterpillar families, holding them tight in round cupped hands. A breeze wafts in through the chain link fence, and then the sweet sweet smell of doughnuts, pastries, bread, from warehouse ovens one block down. Beyond the gate, I watch the slow, silent shuffle of men and women, alone or in pairs, waiting in line for food from the shelter, on a good day piled high in brown bags and boxes halves. Before school is out, those folks will gone again, with their heavy loads down the street, to the crowded bus stop, and away. Then, long shadows will creep across cracked sidewalks, busy feet will patter home, hand in hand. Doors and windows will shudder and slam tight, the gate will rattle, then be still, closed, silent. An empty swing will sway back and forth in the wind at sunset, an old gray cat will jump the fence to weave its way through footprints, castles, moonlight. **This was from a writing class I took at the Hugo House last spring. I forget what the assignment was, I think it was to describe a place in detail. This was about the playground of the school I used to teach at, now called Giddens School.
