Skinned knees and tag sessions ending dirtied on grass stained grounds with swing sets embedded in sand pits and long slides like mirrors that reflect everything around them. Held hands and blushed cheeks and little freckles dotted everywhere, hair mussed and buttons undone, shoe laces dragged beneath their feet. Just five years old, lollipops at hand, singing songs of little lambs and posie-filled pockets.
A playground self-discovery at twelve o'clock, caught beneath the midday sun and stuck inside the tire swing. Popscicle melting oceans of blue and red and white on pudgy little fingers, so sticky, sugar sweet.