The Stories Inside Us

Gold Can Stay

It was getting late—a little chilly and a little dark.  But they had asked with such earnestness, and we all needed a little fresh air on our faces.  So I said yes to a playground run at 5 PM on an early November evening in New England.  And in a wink we were off.

The playground was blissfully all ours for about fifteen minutes.  My sons played, ran, and did what they needed to do after a full day of being cooped up in the house.  Things were going so well as to engage my maternal magnanimity; I was just about to suggest a post-playground dinner and movie.

But then the atmosphere changed.  Decidedly.  Two, then three, then a dozen children hopped the fence of the playground.  They took over the equipment, yelled—at times at each other and then at no one in particular—and hurled expletives the likes of which…

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