Playing Hide and Seek in the Garden of Heroes

I’ve never seen it before, this horseshoe
of bushes tucked at the front of the State House lawn,
like a pocket on a wide green shirt. It must be

a secret garden, I say to my daughter, so of course
she races over, and by the time I see those
short flags in the dirt, she’s climbing up

the granite marker, pink sneakers muddying
the names of the dead. I pull her off, her limbs
flailing like a beetle on its back. You only

look, I say, and she shrugs, running fingers over
the engraving. She is three. Some of these soldiers
were alive when she was born. There is room left

for more. Come find me, she says, wedging
herself between the marker and the azaleas,
her feet and banged-up knees sticking out

over the gravel path. She is a terrible hider.
I sit on a wooden bench and count backwards
from ten, my eyes open. The slender redbuds

offer no cover, their crowns suited only
for ornament. It feels wrong to play here,
where people in uniform have mourned.

Some might believe the dead are happy
to see a child keep this garden alive,
but I look over my shoulder for a mother

or father who might see us and remember
playing until everyone was hot and tired.
I pretend not to find her, calling her name

until she laughs and shrieks, runs out
to grab me. I brought her here. For her,
​I will hide and hope that no one sees.

​
Published in the Missing Providence anthology

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