It's a Saturday afternoon in mid-May and the park is empty.
No screaming, no running, no jumping, no joking, no laughing, no crying, no swinging, no singing, no fun. The trees are the only ones making shadows on the playground. One fell apart on the slide. The puddle of dirty water and broken branches are evidence that this mess has been sitting here for some time.
After a while, two teenagers come by and play basketball. Their dribbles are too faint to fill the silence and echo faintly, tiny in comparison in the space that they need to fill.
A man pulls in driving a gold sedan. There's a wheelchair on his license plate. He opens the car door and sits for a long while with his feet on the ground, looking down, as if he has to think about each step before moving forward. Slowly, he leaves the car, holding on to it for support, unsteadily but with a purpose. He holds a bottle of water in one hand and a napkin in the other, wiping off marks on his car invisible to everyone else's eyes. It shines even in the shade.