At night I know it as a dark death trap of a playground. No lights on this small city corner that I walk past on my way home, and my big feet always catching those low bars raised only two curse words off the the ground.
During the day it’s the ultimate jungle gym in the purest, most extreme sense of the words. …and the evening brings out the coaches.
It’s a neighborhood gathering. Kids on guitars and random instruments harmonize to surprising beauty. A Burmese coach hands out snacks of chips and ice-cream. An American coach helps some with their pull ups and a third coach yells in Burmese with delight as he swings a kid so high on the rings that the kid’s feet touch the tree.
It’s concrete gymnasium that would be torn out of the American ground faster than you can say “law-suit money”. But here. Here it seems to bring a bonding that is far from pack and not far from family.