Playground. Oasis. Hideaway. Magical Kingdom. Twenty-two women tell of sun and swings, treehouses and tranquility
Rachael Lavon
W
e are the amphibious creatures of my grandparents’ backyard.
We glide beneath the water in search of secret coves until the chlorine stings and the California sun scorches the spots we missed and we remember that imaginary games are for children. Once on dry land our necks are inspected. We can’t trust them to put on their own sunscreen they’re still children the adults admonish. But I see no cherubic child amid the gangly limbs teeth shackled with metal hair that frizzes into a halo around my face.
I find refuge from this disparity on the outskirts of Perfect.
Past the pristine white carpet plump white couches. Past the humming pool the light cushioned chaise lounges lined up like lazy summer soldiers. Past the Cabana and expectations flower beds and requests. We tiptoe toward a dense knot of leafy trees. Pebbles shift beneath us and we hush each other though we aren’t breaking any rules my cousin and I we’re simply disappearing. The quiet slinking away of children who believe they’re no longer children. (Excerpted from Family First Issue 548)
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