I plop down under the oak that used to bear my mother’s silhouette, back when Dad and I threw the ball after Sunday morning mass. Youthful watercolors streak across the sky. The park pulses. The wind offers some rhythmic relief a midst the stagnant heat. Children in bunches scurry in the distance, flying kites, playing in the sandbox, making their little mouse-squeaks. The evil marry-go-round beckoningly squeaks far too close to aluminum slides and poles. It was a deceptively picturesque panorama. If one were to paint the scene, the result would most certainly appear uninspired – nothing special. Move closer, though, and you can dead skin hanging off of scraped, red-flecked knees. A little closer, and you can see tiny shards of glass in the sandbox. A little deeper, and you’ll see the dead-eyed teen in the background, shaken by some domestic nightmare. They say you grow up quick. It took me three days in that park, three nights sleeping in the tube slide, before I could go back to what I once called home.