We’re in the park, finally, finally. I don’t remember the last time we were here in this park. BW, that’s for sure

“W

hat’s that noise?”

My three-year-old tips his head back to the blue, blue sky.

Overhead, the rumble of fighter jets, one, and another, and another.

We don’t see them; we rarely do. I’m not sure if that’s because the sound reaches us only after they’ve passed, or if they’re flying too high, or they’re camouflaged somehow. Do they mirror the sky?

“It sounds like an airplane. Or a helicopter!” I say. Enthusiastically. He’s three years old; why should the sound of warplanes haunt him for a lifetime?

“A helicloptor!” Shloimy parrots, beaming. Then he runs back to the slide.

We’re in the park, finally, finally. I don’t remember the last time we were here in this park. BW, that’s for sure.

Before War.

Back Then, a trip to the park meant sunscreen and snacks, water and wipes. It meant marshaling my flagging energy to get out, out, out because once we were outside, it would be worth it. Sun, grass, slides, balls; what more do little boys need?