The World is My Playground

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Ode to a Playground.”

The world was my playground. The world still is my playground. My siblings and I could turn everything and anything into something. In the confines of the house we grew up in, we had a walk in closet, it was big enough for a twin size bed to fit inside. All it took was a ball of red yarn, tied back and forth crisscrossing endlessly, knotted and attached to every possible handle and bar. This was our spiders lair. A playground for spiders, not so much for the flies, tangled in the web closet.

The stairs with the door that closed at the bottom were a playground. A roller coaster of blankets, bumping down, down, down, into the door. Then sprawling across the floor when the door opened.

We lived near a park, our other playground. Towering trees, travel town with its railroad, the abandoned zoo, and the merry-go-round. No need for the merry-go-round with the pony rides nearby. Although it was more than a pony ride. We were out in the old west. This was our trusty steed. Travelling for hours to the next city. Making our way out West like so many before us. But a pony can be slow. That’s what the train was for. Finally reaching our destination, but the zoo had been relocated. The cages were still there, and the trees. Clambering up trees in attempts to play tag with the squirrels. Then down the dusty road and onto rusted cages. We were bringing the zoo back to life only for it to be abandoned again since we were animals that had escaped.

And there is always the ocean. My favorite playground. The place where I am every and any sea creature. The place where I glide free.

Everywhere is a playground if you let it be.

So thank you world, for existing and for the endless excitement and opportunities you bring to those with imaginations.

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