Hang Me Town

Friendships begin on common playground.

Sambhaji led me by the hand into the giant fish tank containing Chick-fil-A’s playground. The smell of sock feet. The humidity of a dozen tiny mouth breathers panting through plastic tunnels. The reverberating shrieks of terror and fun.

I took my seat alongside the other moms.

“Hi.”

The greeting came from down around my ankles.

“Hi,” I answered. She was probably two. Blonde pigtails. Light blue anime eyes and cherub cheeks. Snug pink pants over an expanding diaper.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“I’m Shaun. And I bet you are Big Sister.”

She stared vacantly up at me. A taller older version of herself answered me from the nearby slide. “No, she’s not a big sister. I am,” she boasted.

“Well, help me out here,” I asked. “Her shirt says ‘BIG SISTER’ in great big letters. But she’s not a big sister?”

“It’s hang me town,” she sighed with both hands on her hips.

“It’s what?”

“HANG! ME! TOWN!”

Apparently I look as clueless as I in fact am.

“It was my big sister shirt but it’s small for me so my mommy gave it to my sister. Hang me town,” she explained.

“A lot of my clothes are hang me town too,” I shared. “I love hang me town clothes.”

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