Grass, Swings, and Sky

“I didn’t need to ask where we were going next. I just needed to lie in the grass and remember what it felt like to stop.”

Downey Park was huge. Not just big in the way a school oval felt big when you were standing at one end and couldn’t see the other, but properly enormous—like a green continent made just for children and families and laughter. It unfolded in every direction, a patchwork of fields and trees and play areas and quiet spots, as if someone had taken all the best bits of every park in the country and stitched them together into one perfect dream.

It made the parks back home look like practise runs—those small, fenced-off areas in Broken Hill with faded swings and cracked seesaws, patches of bare earth where the grass refused to grow. Even the lovely park we’d visited yesterday seemed small and shy by comparison. Downey Park didn’t feel shy. It felt bold and proud and full of joy. It was a kingdom, and it belonged to us all.

The open green spaces were the first thing I noticed—vast, flat stretches of lawn where people were playing like the world was simple and safe. Footballs arced through the air, frisbees sliced past like giant silver leaves caught on the wind, and the sound of children squealing with delight floated up like a song. Somewhere a portable speaker was playing music—not too loud, just enough to add to the atmosphere—and the beat mingled with laughter and the occasional bark of a happy dog.

Nearer to us, a group of teenagers played touch rugby with the kind of effortlessness that made it look like dancing. They zigzagged across the field in bursts of energy and shouted encouragement to each other with voices full of sunshine. Watching them made something inside me ache—not with jealousy, exactly, but with the wish that things could stay like this forever. That we’d keep moving forward into this version of life where everything unfolded the way it was meant to.

Some families had clearly arrived early, claiming the best spots beneath the largest trees and setting up like professionals. Tables unfolded, chairs clicked into place, eskies popped open to reveal juice boxes and sausage rolls and salads packed in neat containers. There were picnic blankets patterned like storybooks, and baskets filled with fruit, and folding screens to keep the breeze at bay. It looked like they were planning to stay the whole day—and I didn’t blame them. If I could have pressed pause on time, I would’ve done it right then.

But the playground—oh, the playground. It was the most magical thing I’d ever seen. The kind of place you dream about as a child and half believe must exist somewhere, even if no one has ever taken you there before.

There were castles, real ones—or as real as playground castles could be—with high wooden turrets and waving flags. Bridges connected them like secret walkways between kingdoms, and spiral slides curled from their towers like enchanted vines. Nearby, a great wooden ship tilted slightly in its sea of bark chips, its sails carved with swirls and its helm turning under eager hands. Children clambered up ropes and scrambled across nets, shouting things like “Captain!” and “Abandon ship!” as if they were on actual voyages rather than simply playing.

The swings were the tallest I’d ever seen. From the top of their arc, you could almost glimpse the sky’s secrets, and when the wind caught you just right, it felt like flying. I could already imagine the rush in my stomach, the moment of weightlessness before gravity gently pulled you back.

The trees that ringed the park were ancient, the kind of trees that had watched a thousand birthdays and tantrums and first steps beneath their branches. One had a trunk wide enough that three of me might have fit across it. Its bark was rough and warm from the sun, flaking away in patches that smelled rich and green and alive. Leaves fluttered down slowly, turning in the air like tiny paper dancers before settling on the grass below.

There was a hill not far away, gentle and round and topped with a looping bike track where kids sped around on scooters and bicycles, helmets flashing like beetle shells in the sunlight. They cheered each other on, or simply raced themselves, faces pink with effort and pride. From up there, you could see most of the park spread out like a living map—fields and picnic spots and paths that wound through gardens like trails in a treasure hunt.

And off in the distance, almost shimmering with sunlight, was the duck pond. I saw the tell-tale ripples on the water, the white of bread crusts being tossed, and the gleam of small hands pointing, reaching, waving. Ducks glided calmly across the surface, unbothered by the fuss, their movements smooth and elegant. A toddler squealed with delight as one waddled near, flapping briefly in welcome—or maybe warning.

It was the kind of place that didn’t just give you something to do. It gave you space to be. To run, to hide, to explore, to watch, to breathe. A place with nooks for daydreams and hills for shouting from, trees to lean against and secrets waiting to be discovered in the way the light fell through the leaves.

And as I took it all in, my chest filled with something big and warm and almost unbearable. Not just happiness. Not even just hope. But the sense that this—this—was what normal could look like. What it should look like. And for one morning, it was ours.

I ran toward the nearest play structure without waiting for permission or instruction, my feet barely touching the ground as I launched myself into the kind of motion that only pure happiness could generate. The wind rushed against my cheeks and the grass brushed my ankles, springy and cool beneath my shoes. My heart beat faster, not from effort, but from exhilaration—like joy itself had gotten hold of my legs and was using them to fly.

The castle tower I’d chosen loomed before me, all sun-bleached timber and red-painted turrets, its crooked rope bridge swaying gently in the breeze. The slide twisted from the top like a glossy red ribbon dropped from a great height, curling in on itself in wide, sun-warmed coils. It looked magical. It looked like freedom.

As soon as I crossed the invisible threshold where the mulch began and the grass ended, I was surrounded by the sound of other children laughing—not just the usual screeches and yells of playground chaos, but real laughter. The sort that came in bubbling bursts, so full of life and ease it seemed impossible that anything bad could ever happen in the world.

No one here was crying. No one was watching their back. The air sparkled with the kind of energy that only comes when you know you're allowed to be exactly who you are—no secrets, no whispers, no threats lurking just offstage.

Kids darted through the wooden structures like butterflies, their movements fluid and full of purpose even when their games made no sense to anyone over the age of ten. Some climbed hand-over-hand across monkey bars like mini-acrobats, their sneakers thudding lightly as they dropped to the soft ground below. Others chased each other in dizzying loops around the main play area, shouting rules of imaginary kingdoms as they went—rules that changed by the minute and were accepted without question.

A little girl with curly hair and a watermelon-patterned hat offered me a grin as she passed, her hands sticky with ice cream and her cheeks flushed with play. She didn’t ask who I was or where I came from. She just grinned like she recognised something in me—another child who knew how to run without looking back.

Behind me, Mum had found the perfect patch of shade beneath one of the old trees, and I saw her smoothing out the blanket with exaggerated care. She arranged our things the way people did when they wanted to make something temporary feel solid and secure. It looked like she was building a kind of home base—not just for our picnic, but for us.

She sat down slowly, as though trying to lower her body without losing the gentle hum of calm that had taken hold. Her sunglasses stayed on, even in the dappled light, but I could tell from the tilt of her head that she was watching me. When I turned and waved, she lifted her hand and returned the gesture without hesitation. There was no performance in it, no layer of forced cheer. Just a small, true moment of connection. She saw me. And I think—just for that second—she saw herself too, not as someone fleeing or fighting, but as a mother giving her child a day to remember.

Mack, of course, didn’t sit. He stood on the edge of the blanket like he didn’t quite trust the stillness, his eyes moving from one end of the park to the other with quiet calculation. His body wasn’t tense exactly, but it was ready—poised like he could spring into action at any moment. When he finally began to walk, he did so casually, his hands in his hoodie pockets, his path unhurried. But I could see it for what it was: a pattern, a circuit. He was tracing invisible lines of safety, drawing a mental map of who was near, where the exits were, and what might look out of place.

Part of me felt comforted. The other part wanted to cry, just a little, because it wasn’t fair that he had to carry that kind of weight on his ten-year-old shoulders.

But I didn’t cry. Not here. Not today.

Instead, I climbed.

The wooden tower was warm where the sun hit it, and cool in the shadowed gaps between planks. My fingers found handholds and my trainers found footholds, and I climbed like I’d been born to reach the top. I crossed the rope bridge without hesitation, my arms out for balance, the whole world gently swaying beneath me. It was brilliant—the kind of mild danger that wasn’t really dangerous at all, just enough to make your heart race a little faster in the best way.

At the top, I paused. The view from the turret felt impossibly wide. I could see Mum beneath her tree, the check of the blanket like a lighthouse marking our safe spot. I could see Mack circling the playground, his head turning slowly as he scanned the landscape. I could see the kids and the trees and the sky, and it all felt like it belonged to me.

And then I launched myself down the twisty slide.

It grabbed me instantly—fast and slippery and just a little unpredictable, like it had its own ideas about how I should descend. I let out a squeal of delight as the plastic walls curled around me, the world spinning in bright colours and cool shadows until, with a final swoop, I landed in the mulch at the bottom, legs sprawled and hair wild.

I burst out laughing.

Then I scrambled up and ran to the ladder again, because once wasn’t enough.

Not even close.

After my third trip down the slide—hair wild, breath quick, heart hammering with the giddy satisfaction of pure joy—I spotted a small gathering of children huddled along a winding concrete path that looped through the playground like a ribbon of possibility. They were crouched low, their hands dusty and smeared with colour, completely absorbed in what looked like the most serious of undertakings: a collaborative chalk mural, sprawled across the pavement in vibrant disorder.

I drifted closer, curious but cautious, not wanting to break the invisible spell of their concentration. My steps slowed as I approached, that familiar flutter of uncertainty rising in my chest—the part of me that always wondered if I’d be welcome, if stepping forward might shatter something fragile. But before I could retreat or hover awkwardly, one of the girls—a freckled redhead with uneven pigtails and a grin that showed off a spectacular lack of front teeth—looked up, locked eyes with me, and smiled wide.

“Wanna draw?” she asked, as if I’d been expected all along.

She held out a stub of purple chalk, its edges worn smooth by enthusiastic use, and pointed to a blank section of path with the unspoken understanding that it was now mine. I took it with a shy smile, the chalk warm from her hand, and crouched beside them.

I began with a sun—big and bold and beaming, the centre a perfect circle, its rays bursting outwards in all directions like arms flung wide in a hug. I pressed the chalk down hard, savouring the satisfying scrape of it against the pavement, the small cloud of coloured dust that rose with every stroke.

“That’s not a sun,” a boy to my right said suddenly. He had dark hair, green shorts smeared with grass, and a look of intense concentration that didn’t quite match his age. He squinted at my drawing as if trying to solve a riddle. “It looks like a sea urchin.”

I blinked at him, surprised, then looked at my creation again. And he was right. The way the rays curved slightly, the uneven spacing—it did look like something pulled from the bottom of the ocean rather than the sky.

“Maybe it’s both,” I said after a beat, grinning. “A sun that turned into a sea urchin because it got tired of being hot all the time.”

He tilted his head, considering. “Or a sea urchin pretending to be a sun so it can go to space.”

We both giggled then—real, full-bodied laughter that felt like a dance between strangers who had decided to become friends without needing to ask first. We added more details to our shared section: sunglasses for the sea-sun-urchin, a tiny rocket ship trying to escape its spines, and a jellyfish shaped like a spaceship floating nearby. Around us, the mural bloomed—flowers with dinosaur heads, clouds with cat faces, a bicycle that morphed into a dragon halfway through its frame.

By the time my knees began to ache from crouching and the chalk dust had turned my hands pale pink and lavender, I felt lighter than I had in days. Like I had slotted into something real and uncomplicated, something that didn’t need explaining.

Eventually, I wandered away from the path, giving my new friends a quick wave as I drifted toward the quieter stretch of grass near the swings. My body hummed with that wonderful kind of tiredness that comes from doing exactly what you wanted for exactly as long as you needed.

I lay down on my back, arms stretched out wide like I was trying to hug the entire world, and felt the gentle welcome of the earth beneath me. The grass was cool and a little damp, tickling the backs of my arms and legs, and above me the branches of a sprawling tree swayed lazily in the breeze.

A plane moved overhead—silver and distant, so high it seemed almost still. It left a single white line behind it, slicing the sky clean in two. I watched as the line softened, feathered at the edges, blurred into nothing. A message meant only for a moment. A path that faded the second it was no longer needed.

I didn't need to ask where we were going next or why we weren’t at school or whether we'd stay in Brisbane for good. I didn't need to look for signs of Mum's worry or Mack's vigilance. I just needed this moment—this patch of grass, this sky, this feeling of not needing to understand everything.

For a little while, I was just Rose again. Not a girl on the run. Not a girl with questions adults wouldn’t answer. Just a six-year-old with chalk on her fingers and the sun on her face, lying in a city park that smelled like eucalyptus and damp earth and possibilities.