{{Just a little written piece, not too happy with it but I'm leaving it. Image, edited by me, from DawnAllynnStock on deviantArt. Thanks for viewing, comments welcome as always}} It was late afternoon in May, hotter than it had been in years, but that didn't stop the children form going to the park after school. It took much nagging to get their sluggish parents in the car and to the grassy field with the swing sets and the sandbox and the slides, but somehow the children managed. Perhaps some of them cleaned their room just right, or did another household chore. Perhaps some of them only said "Pretty please." Whatever the cause, the park was bustling with the activity and life of youth, in the range of infant to adolescent. It was in the midst of this delightful chaos that I found myself, curled up casually on a park bench. The pages of the notebook on my knees flapped annoyingly in the small gusts of wind, only to be accompanied by the anxious tap of my pen on the lined paper. I hadn't the slightest idea why I was there, or when I would leave. The chance of inspiration in this crowded place seemed extraordinarily bleak. Don't get in a tiff, I told myself. Just observe and see what there is to see. Inspiration is everywhere, right? After the brief pep talk, and after readjusting the notebook so it wouldn't be pestered by the wind anymore, my eyes scanned the crowd of freckled faces and smiles with missing teeth. I really focused on the children an the world they were in; the way the metal of the monkey bars and the slide cast reflections on their faces. Yet it wasn't the familiar sensation of childhood that I wanted to capture. What I needed then, and wanted to find, was one child - a child to watch, and to observe, and to write about. It was a difficult task, as there were many interesting-looking and beautiful children at the park that day. So I searched them all, and still none seemed to be enough to write about. All of them were well good enough to make mention of, and take note of, but none of them stood out to write on solely. Suddenly, my focus went past the children at play, to one little girl who sat by herself on the swing set across the park. The rest of the children were between this little girl and I, which might have been the cause of my missing her in the first place. She was probably no older than five years old, in a baby blue dress and a pair of black Mary Janes. The sun cast glowing light on her golden-blonde hair, making it shimmer as if it were alive. The lovely locks were pulled in pigtails, held together by bright blue ribbon. Her eyes - which were nearly the colour of the ribbon that bound her hair - were big and set closely together, over a button nose and a heart-shaped mouth. The face that these features adorned was pale and round, and as the little girl smiled I noticed that she had dimples. Her smile was as innocent and pure as the sunlight that shone on her, and she radiated this nearly ethereal softness. I didn't have even a remote idea regarding what would be written about her, but it was a wonder enough to me to just watch her for a while until she left with her parents - parents, it struck me then, that didn't seem to be around. I frowned at the thought. It's not safe to leave her alone this time of day. Are they crazy? The moment the words passed through my head, the little girl turned her head and looked me square in the eye. Without the slightest change in her expression, she carefully got off the swing and started toward me. Her natural curiosity made me smile, but it made me worry for her, as well. I saw no parent chasing after her or calling out to her, as I would have done had she been mine. Within a matter of seconds, she was coming up to me. There wasn't an ounce of fear or hesitation in her as she hoisted herself up on the remaining side of the wooden bench. She leaned in close, and as she did, I got a whiff of baby powder and day lilies. "Whatcha doing?" she asked me, casting her wide eyes up to meet mine. Her legs swung back and forth as they dangled off the edge of the bench. "I'm trying to think of a story to write," I sighed, giving a glance at the notebook in my lap. "But it's not going so well." "What kinda story?" the little girl inquired. I thought about that for a moment, and answered her with the only thing I could think of, and the only thing that would've been true if spoken. "I don't really know." I gave her a warm smile and tilted my head a bit. "What's your name?" "Polly," she told me. "Where are your parents, Polly?" She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders, feet still swinging. "I dunno." "Well, who brought you here?" "Nobody did. I wanted to play." I was about to ask her another question, as I was quite confused by her answers thus far, when the bells from the church down the road began to ring. It was seven o'clock. Polly looked alarmed, a furrow knitting through her young brow. "I gotta go," she told me. "He said I could stay till the bells rang." She slid off the park bench and smoothed the back of her dress. "See ya!" She made a dash for the entrance of the park, her pigtails bobbing as she went. "But - wait!" It was too late. She had already gone out of sight after a minivan pulled out of its parking space ever so slowly, blocking me from seeing her as she ran off to make sure she didn't get hit by a car or something else terrible. I huffed a sigh. "What a dear. Hope she's alright." After a few moments passed I grabbed my notebook and tucked it under my arm, and put my pen behind my ear so I could head back home. The sun was going to be setting in a little while, and I wanted to make it back to the house before it got dark. I walked through the entrance and the parking lot, to the gate that separated the park from the sidewalk and the road. I turned back and looked at the noisy chaos of childhood, gave a small chuckle, and began my journey home. About a block from the park, I noticed a cross nailed into the ground with a pink ribbon tied around the top. Teddy bears and roses surrounded the white cross, and as I approached, the scent of day lilies wafted into my nostrils. Wait...day lilies... A chill ran up my spine as, getting closer, the pink letters on the cross became readable. POLLY BELOVED DAUGHTER