descriptive essay
The air glows with memories - an unnatural perfection that never happens in real life. The heels of my tiny white sneakers squeak against the hard metal slide. I like these shoes a lot, because when I stomp them, they light up and blink with little pink hearts. Under them I wear thick white socks. They make me uncomfortable, but Mommy made me wear them and I knew we would not go to the park if I complained. (I still did complain a little.)
The slide is long and curly. It is two different colors, red and yellow, and then a third in spots where the paint has scraped off, but I am not sure what color to call that. The sun glints off it in long sheets and makes it look silvery-white. The scooped-out belly of the slide is just the right size for Daddy and me to go down it together, with me sitting in front of him and him holding my hands in case I trip when we get to the end.
Daddy is wearing grown-up jeans that have lost some of their blueness, and I am wearing corduroys that scratch my legs. I complained about these, too, but they seem less important now. My puffy black jacket with the neon stripes shows my tummy a little, and the cold gets in. I would stop and pull it down, but I am holding Daddy's hands, and I would rather be cold than let go. Under my jacket I have on a plaid shirt, checkered with blue boxes, made out of something really soft. It feels good on my skin.
Daddy's hands are a lot bigger than mine. He can put his hands all the way around mine and have room left over. It makes me feel safe. His jacket is not pulled up in the front, because it is big and covers him all. When we climbed up the ladder earlier, I felt his jacket with both hands. It is very soft and dark brown, not as dark as his hair or mustache, but still dark. I love kissing his cheek. He has the beginnings of whiskers and so it feels almost like sandpaper, but he is the best-looking Daddy in the whole world.
All around the slide is grass. Well, there is some grass, but it is very thin and sparse; sometimes little patches of sand or dirt poke through, because everything is dry. Far, far away is a soccer goal that is probably as tall as four of me would be if we stacked shoulders. That is a long way to run, and I am glad Daddy would rather slide with me than play soccer. I would play if he asked me to, but sliding is more fun.
The sky is the color of the underside of a mushroom - mostly a light, light slate color. I cannot actually see the place where it touches the ground, because it gets interrupted by a big long clump of trees. They are almost done being green, and I will be sad when the last of the leaves fall off. I want them to stay green, and I want Daddy and me to stay here in this frozen moment that is not all real, holding each others' hands, and my feet suspended right over the ground.
