Playgrounds 

by Mimi Amado 

Rumor around daycare was that 
the new kid burned down his house 

and everything inside. Probably because 
he wore the same eight pocket shorts each 

day, and spat on the sidewalk next to the 
tire swing. We were the last people to get 

picked up each night, a dollar for every 
minute our mothers were late, and thank god. 

He kicked woodchips into the garden marked 
with the grave of a beloved rabbit until his 

mom walked up the playground steps, no car, 
and the two of them slid into the night. I made 

my own drive to Kmart after work, two meetings, 
and no lunch break she reminded me the whole 

way there. We walked out with a twelve dollar 
Wilson, and when I presented it to him, a sphere 

of reindeer wrapping paper, he looked me in 
the eye and kicked it into my stomach. Kicked 

it so hard that I went to the other side of the 
playground and slid down the blue tunnel slide 

until spring. It was a kick that should have begun 
my path along the dead grass of knowing that 

people aren’t rippling ponds. And yet I’m still 
buying soccer balls. I tried to change Collin, 

and then he tried to change me, and I think 
we’ll remain on this old seesaw forever. 

Mimi Amado is a freshman at Tisch for Dramatic Writing. But before that, she attended a magical place called the South Carolina Governor’s School for the Arts. She continues to write because she cannot speak as well as all of these other NYU kids. She also believes that everything matters, especially the playground, which may contribute to her insomnia.