Weekends, we used to take the children to the park, or what used to be the American base where there was a mini-golf and skating rink; a playground with cheerful painted animals you could mount, spinners, teeter-totters and monkey bars. There they could have their fill of grass to run and tumble in under the towering pines while we sat on benches, until they tired and wanted a cold drink or an ice cream. To the west, we could glimpse some of the road that led past Teacher's Camp to Mines View Park, where tourists tossed coins into the gorge and posed with natives wearing g-strings and feathered caps. At that time, only members could get into the Country Club, or dine at their smör- gåsbord, or swim laps in their pool. Still, I don't feel my children were deprived of any joy. On cold mornings, they sat together in bed, sneezing into tissues while reading picture books. The world then was everything we could name with certainty, not yet knowing how it could divide us from each other.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
