Memorial Park

I can see the whole park. The pond to the north. It's all covered in slime during the summer. It's fun to slide on. Like ice skating with water up to our knees. The slime collects in our toes. We play king of the rock on that boulder that someone threw in the middle. The police drive by. They yell at us to get out. We wait 'till they leave, then get back in.
From where I sit, I can see the playground. It's no longer hidden. It's behind those stumps. Those stumps were trees. Trees that we climbed. The police men didn't like that either. We never really liked the playground. It was built after we were kids. The old equipment was better, but they took it all out. "Too dangerous" they decided. The drinking fountain in the middle worked once. It doesn't now. Kids try it all the time. When the sun is hot, they are disappointed. One boy I liked kissed me in the slide. The big tube kind that kids try to climb up. It wasn't very fun. He was a bad kisser. We like the swings, though.
The bear cave is closest to me. It has only one door. It has bars on it. The cave is a small building. It's made of thick cement. It's sunken into the ground, like it's too heavy for the dirt. We were afraid of it. We aren't now. We saw the door open once. They keep boring things in it. Things my mom would like. Shovels and mowers for landscaping. We sit on top of it and listen to concerts. Only sometimes, though. It's too crowded, too. I try to push my friends off. I really want to push the strangers off. The loud, annoying ones.
The fields are far away. There are three now. Big ones seperated by a sidewalk. The sidewalk says no bikes. We ignore that, too. The policemen don't yell at us for it. We play frisbee and football in the fields. There used to be only two. The south field was the swimming pool. They tore it down. Another one was built further away. We miss the old one. The new one is crowded. The fields make us dirty. We get grass stains and mud stains. People bring their dogs. We get dog-doo stains. In the summer, we spray each other with the sprinklers.
I can see the stage. It's blocked by a few trees. The trees are fat. They've been there forever, I think. Bands play on the stage. Rock bands, sometimes, but mostly brass bands. They play every Sunday in the summer. People come from all the cities around to listen. Mostly, I think, they come to visit each other. Only the people who sit in the seats listen. The people on the grass play games and talk. We sit on the grass most Sundays. We throw grass at each other. We dance on the stage. When all the people leave. We dance the cha-cha. We dance poorly.
I can see the whole park. I sit on the wishing man. One boy I loved told me it was the wishing man. I told my sisters.
We sit on the wishing man. We close our eyes and make wishes. The wishing man grants our wishes. He always grants our wishes. Unless our wishes are bad wishes. One friend proposed to my cousin while she sat on the wishing man.
The wishing man is a tree. A giant pushed him over once. The wishing man didn't die. He grew bent. Bent enough for four five of us to sit on once. Now only two or three. We're bigger.
I sit on the wishing man. I can see the whole park. I sit on the wishing man because we are gone. Every lover who walked me over the fields has left. Every friend who muddied my knees and squished goo through our toes moved. The dancing stopped. It stopped because the partners gave it up. Other friends throw grass at each other now. A child asks me if I will move. She sits on the wishing man. I watch her make a wish. I don't know her.