Playground

It took a very long time to fill the position; many applied but, when they drove out to see the keeper's cottage, few even got out of the car. The ancient cemetery sat on a slight hill between the road and the edge of the woods; the caretaker's cottage was just off to the side there - ringed by twisted trees on three sides. That presentation was "Stephen King" enough for some but, for others, the real problem was the land adjacent to the cemetery; just a ways out from the cottage there were playground pieces in bad repair (the only things left of the orphanage that had once been there, now cleared). The man who'd eventually accepted the job kept to himself, coming into town a couple of times per month to get gas and groceries. He kept the grounds immaculate, but had also set himself to the task of repairing and repainting the playground equipment (making two new seats for the swings, leveling the slide, and fixing the pinions of the seesaw and the merry-go-round so they'd move). A couple of the ladies from a local church paid him a call to welcome him to town and saw his work. "Do you have children that visit?" one asked. He smiled tenderly and gestured to the graves just west of them; they had smiled, nodded, and found reasons to immediately excuse themselves. He worked hard without complaint, ate enough, slept well and, late some nights, took a bit of comfort listening to the noises coming from the playground.