There was no wind. Laughter floated through still air. Little voices tossed giggles at each other then tagged, skipped and climbed. Each caught the other’s giggle, which transformed into screams of delight. At night, the swing sat lonely, unmoving, longing to be touched by a light breeze. On this hot summer afternoon, just after the church bell rang, the playground bustled with life. Old men sat cross legged on park benches, or in front of stone slab chess tables, heads hung low. Their heads did not raise as the children ran by grabbing balls and catching frisbees. There was no time. There was a checkmate in the future that needed to be attended to. Besides, mothers and fathers were on hand, ready to put hands over cuts or bruises–bandaids and tissue lined many pockets. But they weren’t remembered. All that was remembered were the little hands touching this, climbing that, running here, running there, lying on backs to look up at the sun, all against mother’s wishes. There was no time for hands in pockets to remember little accidents that might happen. Still, they always did.