The voice in my head tells me it’s three in the morning, Shelly. He isn’t coming.
But he’s coming. To the park. He loves the park.
A breeze takes hold of the merry-go-round and nudges it into the tiniest of spins. Not enough to bring about a child’s laugh. Perfect for the inevitable whine of discontent.
I lay the tip of the wine bottle against my lips and tilt up. It clicks against my bottom teeth. Two drops of the dry merlot fall on my tongue, and it’s only then I remember that I finished the bottle a while ago. It’s gone.
Gone, gone, gone.
Where is he? This is his favorite spot.The “go-roun” he calls it. It’s funny. He tries to push it himself but he’s so so small. Never strong enough and turns the brightest shade of red when he tries.
I smile and tilt the bottle back again.
Gone, gone, gone.
I tuck the empty bottle in the center of my folded legs just as the spurt and whir precedes a sudden rain shower. I lift my hands, palms up, and hunch my shoulders. The sprinkler heads surround me, their cold, heavy drops beating me. Soaking me.
I look at the drops coating the skin of my outstretched arm.
Suddenly, I know. He isn’t coming. No, my little boy won’t come to the park. To any park. If I’d just stuck to the plans. If we’d come to the park and played on the go-roun. If I’d just ignored what he wanted to do.
Too many people, I’d thought that day. Too many kids playing in the pool. Too many adults chatting at tables too far away. He was too young and didn’t know the dangers.
I swipe at the water coating my arms and hands. I scrub it out of my face but it just keeps coming. Yet it will never be enough. I can still breathe. And he can’t breathe. His little lungs…too many kids…not enough eyes…so much water.
And he’s gone.
Gone, gone, gone.
