A lone swing swaying in the wind stands silent vigil over the barren playlot, occupied only by images of friends long gone. Decrepit toys lay scattered in the sands, half buried with time. Half a sandwich enjoys the company of other garbage strewn around the trash can, rotting in the wintry breeze. An empty bench beckons to all who care, inviting any passerby to sit and rest. There are none. Beside the bench lies a forlorn red shovel, doubtless forgotten by some small boy, never to be seen again.
A field of withered, frostbitten brown grass is beyond the playground, wind whispering through its dead vegetation. A small sheet of dull green paper tumbles away from the sandbox, anxious to find value elsewhere. The wind dies out, finding a better place to play.
A single flake of purity falls, coming from the dark grey clouds above. It is soon joined by others, replacing desolation with mere solitude, blanketing the scene below. All that is forgotten is forgotten, and only memories remain.
--Bill Nimchuk '97
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