Heart Pangs on the Playground
"Do you know what gives me heart pangs?" I asked Miss Susie, resting my forearms on the counter of her front desk.
She shook her head. Immediately, tears smarted the backs of my eyes. This now happens every time I talk to Miss Susie, ever since your mother spent that day in the hospital.
I swallowed. "Seeing playgrounds. All I can think about is how the kids used to beg me to stop, and now they don't do that anymore."
When you were little, you cared about playgrounds more than anything. Even when, in my eyes, they left a lot to be desired. Like the plastic slide and swing set near the soccer fields. To my adult eyes, there is never a good reason to spend time there. That playset rests on the forgotten edge of a distant parking lot, not a speck of shade in sight. But to your eyes, the reasons why are endless, just like the possibilities for play.
Alas, I've been like grown-up Susan and grown-up Wendy for years. It's not that I've forgotten how to play. Not exactly. I just struggle to make room for it unless it's subservient to my timetables and personal comfort. After all, I've got places to get to and people to not see. My priorities don't leave much space for watching you tumble around a playground.
And now I'm watching your desperate desires fade, like Bing Bong, into nothingness.
You still have the heart of a child. By that I mean a number of things: Your emotions spin on a dime. Your tears are still tender. Your exuberance is unfettered by the inevitable embarrassment that befalls every middle schooler. You still hurl yourself into delights, expending every ounce of energy in their pursuit, no matter what anyone else thinks.
In moments that my eyes and ears are open, I recognize these things for the treasures they are. I recognize, too, that they will soon pass. Like your sister and brother before you, you will take up other pursuits. You will swap childish ways for grown-up things. You'll detach, raise up walls, become your own person.
But what about me?
Because these heart pangs aren't just about you. I'm grieving my own lost childhood. My own so-called maturity. While you're here and you're young, it feels like I can let you play for me. Soon, I'm going to have to do that all for myself.
Miss Susie, it seems, knows this. What's more, she believes that I'm capable. She stood up from her chair, leaned slightly forward, and looked me straight in my teary eyes: "Next time you see one, stop and make them get out!"
