The dark brown doors to the playground are heavy behind our early arms. Without windows.
We are used to holding small hands, so, once and a while, a teacher will help us push. To find.
If we hide then maybe there is someone counting with their face in their hands / excited
to see us. Here, we are all in the grade where we just can’t miss school. Parents have dropped
off all the happy and so much warranted expectation. If we wake then maybe there is someone
who sings our heads heavy. To the moon. Someone who lives for the cute confusion all over
our faces. We must still be waking up.

We arrive on a bus and the bus driver is our mom. We check to see if there is anyone who fell
asleep in the back. Who forgot their backpack? In the hall there is a party with empty hooks
where we hang our heroes before we enter. We are ready for anything but stillness. Do you hear
the bells of chocolate milk? Stomachs are floating and we’re tugging on the rainbow pinwheel parachute / all the early arms pulling each other and creating clouds. (If I had a crayon
for every time I felt like I was going to die at school, I wouldn’t have many colors. And counting
my valentines cards does not count. And getting jumped in the bathroom does not count.
And getting sent to the office definitely does not count.)

We came longing for a sticker. It would say GOOD JOB and we will have only practiced
our sweetness. It would say EXCELLENT and we will have only professed our favorite species
of wild horse. It would say WINNER and we will have only recited the process in which honey
is made. It’s like a golden beam of heaven in your chest. Early arms.

Outside the heavy brown doors is a playground etched in painted circles, homeroom gathering
spots, and an outfield that at one point became eternity. The bright beyond the heavy door,
the recess, how the light screams like a friend telling you        run        from whoever is           it.
Wince with all the noise of laughter. The concrete smells like mom’s hair. The wood chips
are drying rain. The door is open. All the kids pour out onto the brilliant playground
and are scraping their knees on the blinding sky. Early pick-up. All of us, picked up
that afternoon by our parents. Our teachers. Picked up. Lifted high into the air.