Playground Static

The playground that stopped our joy.

It still stands there, nestled between the crumbling school fence and the old maple trees. The same swing set, its chains slightly rusted. The monkey bars, chipped but deflated. The sandbox, half-filled, as if someone had intended to go back.

It was always your favorite place.

Every afternoon after school, you would burst through the gate as if it were a finish line, your backpack bouncing, your laughter filling the air before your feet touched the gravel. You were five years old. Only five. And the world was still brand new to you.

The playground is quiet now. It has been since that Wednesday.

The slide, the sky, and sudden silence.

You had this habit — climbing right to the top of the slide and standing there for a few seconds before going down. You would pretend it was a rocket launch. "Three... two... one - explosion stop!" you'll scream. We'll laugh. You'll come down like a comet, landing with a triumphant pose every time.

But that day, you didn't explode.

That day, you didn't climb back up.

They say your heart was. Something small and quiet and hidden. Something we didn't know was wrong.

You just... sat down at the bottom of the slide and never stood up again.

The other kids didn't know what was happening. A teacher ran to get me. I froze. I remember the teacher's face. I remember the ambulance. I remember your shoe, left on the gravel edge, the Velcro undone.

🕊️ What resonates, stays.

There's something cruel about a place made for laughter that's now just silence. But I go back. Often.

Sometimes I see your ghost there — neither scary nor cold, just the memory of your joy. I watch you climb. I hear your laughter in the breeze. I hear the swing chains clinking like they used to when you begged me to push you higher.

I always pushed you as high as I could.

But even I couldn’t lift you high enough to keep you up.

🎈 A Balloon for Every Birthday

Since you’ve been gone, we’ve been to the playground every year on your birthday. Just Mom and I.

We bring red balloons—your favorite color—and let them go one by one. They rise to the top until we can’t see them anymore. Each one carries a message.

“This year, you’ll be seven.”

“Today we baked your favorite cake.”

“Your brother misses you.”

“We miss you.”

And then we sit on the bench that now bears your name, just beyond the jungle gym. It says:

"In loving memory of Ellie - forever in flight."

The children play around us. Some stop and read the plaque. Some ask who Ellie was. Their parents silence them. But I smile. Let them ask. Tell them.

You were real. You were real.

💔 The playground is still, but never empty.

You were only here for five years. But in those five years you filled this place with magic.

That swing set? It reminds me of it.

That slide? It still holds the warmth of your joy.

And me? I carry you with me every moment. Every laugh I hear, every sudden gust of wind that passes my ears like a whisper — I look up.

I imagine you still climbing, still reaching, still counting down.

Three...

Two...

One...

I'll keep listening.