Everyday it moves, round and round and round. The clacks of movement, shrieks of laughter. I stay stationed on one spot, on the carousel.
It is ridiculous. I listen to the tangy music, and I wait to see if they will ride me, their trusty stead, on their carousel ride. For five minutes, the children smile their wide, toothy grin in joy. Afterwards, disappointed faces lear up at me, and they walk away.
I have to think of a girl, who was here, in Balboa Park. Her face was freckled and she had murky green-blue eyes. Her medium long, brown-ish hair, framed her pale face. She must have been three or four years old. She loved to ride the train and the carousel, where I could see her enjoying herself.
Her father had coal black hair and coffee brown eyes. They would ride together. Her on the inside, and him on the outer edge of the carousel. The carousel is colorful, as if a painter came along and decided to give it the flare it needed.
What I notice most as a stationary figure is movement. She liked to look behind her and see if she could see the big, fig tree around the corner. It loomed, a big shadow of roots and leaves, dancing with the wind. With vines hanging down from rough branches, the fresh green  leaves, and the people around it, staring, then moving on. It was surrounded by a fence for its protection. The dream of climbing the great tree is a lovely one.
Too soon she would climb off and join her father. Leaving behind the scent of wind. Leaving behind the whirling images, patches of green and brown. The icy feel of metal against your hands, of a different world you are transported in. A child’s joy, is what a carousel is.
After a year of not seeing her, I knew she left it all behind.
A few years a ago I heard a rumor. It consisted of her writing a letter to the zoo president, persuading him not to rip down the train and carousel for more parking space.
I think this place changed her but at a young age so it was an influence over time.
I believe she changed never in a certain way, after the experience of Balboa Park, like a leopard never changes its spots.
Everyone has a childlike voice in them that feels the need to scream, to dance, to play, to go crazy.
The kids experience pure joy. With warmth in their heart, optimism in their brain, and humor in their feet. On which they can walk away, without a hint of sadness. The music emanating from speakers, the sounds from the outside world, the sight of other figures going up and down, the simplicity of it all can make them happy. I should know, since, I watch them everyday, they come and go. One day they do not come again. But I know there is a child in everyone, you just have to find it.