The Carousel That Waits

She stands in rust and silence now,

her red paint flaked like old sunburn.

Three chains dangle like memories—

swaying slightly, though there's no wind.

Once, she spun for hours.

Sand flew out from under bare feet,

and children screamed not in fear,

but in the joy of almost flying.

She remembers it all.

The weight of tiny hands pulling,

the way summer light fell across the monkey bars,

the echo of names shouted in tag.

Even now, when dusk rolls in,

and the crows perch like ghosts on the jungle gym,

she listens.

Just in case someone calls her name.

They never do.

The grass has grown high around her base,

swallowing her roots like the sea swallows shipwrecks.

No oil has touched her bolts in years,

no shoes kicked against her metal core.

But she waits.

Not out of hope.

Hope is for things that breathe.

She waits like trees do—

not expecting, just existing.

And maybe, one day,

a child will wander into the silence,

past the gate that never quite closed,

and see her.

And maybe they’ll put one hand on her bar,

feel the iron hum with memory,

and give her one last spin.

Not fast. Not wild.

Just enough.

Enough to remind her that the past

wasn’t a dream she made up

to pass the time.