Dusk at the portside playground

[Lizzie]

There's a wedding across from the cemetery. A bridesmaid in bare-shouldered navy and a rum-blonde bun poses with her smoke's ghostly cirrus. A girl about six escapes the formality, runs to the playground in white shoes, her black hair pulled back, loosening in front. Her mom smokes at the latticed gate – she says it's time to go when her cigarette's done. The girl cries and looks back at my kids, swinging on their stomachs, hands in the dirt. The grass is unnaturally green in this town. More white lace tights and custard cardigans steal away to play. My son swings beside one, hamming up the peril as he rockets side to side. They twist the chains up to the top, first squeal then shriek. Her dad runs down and holds her head as if with Atlas' hands, his smoldering cigar an inch from her hair.

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I could use some help coming up with a better title for this one, if anyone has any suggestions.