Old railroad ties, splintered and splintering.
4-by-4s and 2-by-4s and chain and sheet metal.
A pile of old hardware over a pile of old mulch.

Also a fairy castle, a space station, a submarine.

What do you see?

Now my little girl is big enough, brave enough, to climb the playground ladder by herself.
Now she can slide down the slide without my guidance.
Now I stand still by the bench by the rusty drinking fountain, watching and wondering when that happened.

Too fast.
Can you slow down?

She makes a pronouncement, more to the playground, more to the slide, more to the moment, than to me.
“One more time and that’s it.”

She heard me say it once.
She knows it is important, because her father said it.
I know it is silly, because her father didn’t mean it.

She runs, trips, recovers, laughs, climbs, jumps, slides, repeats.
“One more time and that’s it.”

I don’t know who the ritual is for.
Not for me.
I don’t want to go anywhere.

We should go.
We are late.
We are supposed to be Someplace Important.
I am supposed to be A Responsible Adult.
I should say something.

I know the spell that will change this fortress back into scrap and splinter.
But it will not change her.
Her magic is too great.
I see it.

She comes around again, radiant, faster because she knows the way so well.
“One more time and that’s it.”

What is more important than this?
What is my responsibility?
Late for what?

This is holy ground.
How can I leave?

Part of me is there still.