The neighborhood park has always been a go-to of mine. It laid the same as it always did: day after day, unchanging. A, what seemed enormous at the age of seven, marigold curly slide resides off to the left, a petite jungle gym deviates to the right, and a broken-down merry-go-round sits smack in the center. Beyond the fence, an unkempt baseball field lies abandoned. The greatest asset of the park is the swings that sit towards the back: the chains hang in all of their mangled glory and the seats sit weathered from all of the Oregon rain.
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Ariel Wolfeself-proclaimed writersomewhat avid reader
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