Green.
I am unashamedly sentimental.
Spring is here and the days once more are slowly changing, the rhythms of our evenings are morphing alongside as a result. We use up every minute of daylight. We wake with the sun and bask in her glorious light till evening comes and rest is needed. It is term four now. The year, though passing quickly, has been long. Our afternoons are increasingly fraught with difficulty. The children are exhausted, emotions are running high, and general grumpiness abounds. We’ve brought dinner forward to help appease the unhappy; by 4pm hungry bellies only add to the trauma of the so aptly named ‘witching hour’.
With hunger tamed and still plenty of time before bed we find our minds outside. The table is cleared, shoes are sought and eventually found, some of us grab helmets, perhaps a dolly friend — Irzza always brings a ball, I a cardigan and often a scarf. The door is locked and off we traipse. Down the little hill by our front gate, around the corner and through the convenient underpass that takes us below the road above. The footpath heads straight to our local park.
This space isn’t anything remotely interesting, there is no playground, and it isn’t particularly pretty. There is a small car park, a handful of dingy weathered community buildings, an often slimy looking waterway, and a great big oval of grass. It is your very average multi-use space. It’s a football field, a cricket pitch; little athletics train there, puppy school calls this place home. It also, very conveniently, happens to be connected to our local primary school.
Having lived in this neighborhood for many years now, we’ve been regulars at this park. Before our children were born Irzza and I would walk our old dog Chopper there. He, like every other local dog, believed himself to be King of the park — his very own personal backyard extension. Trees would be sniffed and marked, grass would be rolled in, and on the odd occasion the scungy waterway that runs alongside the footpath would be jumped into and splashed about in. On those days I was always thankful the walk home only took three minutes.
Of course time keeps passing and our family began to grow. Even now as I walk the familiar paths in that space I can feel a ghost of my former self there. Her belly is swollen and heavy, her hips are tight and sore. She moves slowly, every step is an effort; she’s breathless and puffy. With every lap of the park this past self would fill her head with dreams of things to come. She saw prams being pushed, little steps taken, balls being thrown and kicked, first days of school being walked too…
I’ve had three pregnancies, three births, and three babies. Through those years I’ve walked the grounds of the park. The same walks, over and over and over again. I’ve seen the season’s change, and my children grow. A park that was once just a public green space has become a part of our family landscape. Our dog passed some time ago now, but left a legacy of walks behind him. The children have watched many a stick boat travel down the scungy waterway, noticed spring ducklings swimming behind their mothers, picked hundreds of fluffy wishing dandelions — always closing their eyes tight and blowing earnest wishes profusely out into the world.
Rides in prams have turned into hesitant first steps and then wobbly rides on very small bicycles. There has been running, jumping, skipping, and the occasional dance party on those grasses. Trees have been climbed, fairy doors closely inspected, bird song cheerfully listened too. In winter the puddles are a delight, shoes often kicked off so as to fully appreciate the cool splashes. Colder months sometimes bring a magical misty fog that hangs damp in the air, walking to school on those morning’s fills us all with such a sense of wonder.
It’s spring again and tonight like the past few nights we shall head to the park.
Sienna and Isla will ride their bikes; Freya will proudly walk holding my hand and her favourite toy of the day. Irzza will lock the front door and give the soccer ball a little kick down the footpath. Perhaps a game of eye-spy will take place, or we’ll play running races. There will inevitably be a tantrum at some point, or a disagreement or both. I’ll take the most offended child over to our hug pole (a light post that we have turned into a sacred hugging space), we’ll sit on the grass and cuddle, talking about the feelings that have been hurt. The others will eventually notice and before long we’ll be having a family cuddle and everyone has forgotten the reason for the upset. The sun will begin its descent and signal its time to head home for a warm bath and then bed. The shoes, helmets, balls, and toys are once again gathered and we’ll head home; always the better for some fresh air and family time. We leave behind another memory, different ghosts. I’m sure they all play together when we aren’t there.