By Joe Class III

A red rubber ball ricochets off the slide and vanishes. Suzie’s knees crash forward into the mulch. Sharp cedar chips bite her palms and her exposed knees. Above her, Tamara’s chest heaves as she clenches her fists, glaring at Suzie.

“Tamara.”

Ms. Geri’s soft voice rings over the play yard like a Chinese gong, making every four-year-old freeze in their tracks. The tone. They all know it. Someone’s in trouble!

“She starts it!” Tamara yanks at her braid, pointing at Suzie. “I won’t say sorry when she’s the mean one!”

Ms. Geri kneels in the mulch. Fifteen pairs of eyes watching the commotion from swings and monkey bars.

“I saw you push her,” Ms. Geri says.

Suzie’s green eyes fill and spill over. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” she whispers, her voice wobbling.

“Didn’t you?”

The playground grows quiet.

Ms. Geri reaches for both girls’ hands. “What happened before the pushing, Suzie?”

Suzie’s lip trembles. “I called her a baby. Because she wouldn’t share the good swing.”

Tamara’s face crumples. “See? I told you. She started it! She’s mean, and I hate her and—”

“That doesn’t make pushing right,” Ms. Geri says, interrupting. “But Suzie? Calling names isn’t right either.”

Two little girls, both hurt, both wrong, both waiting.

Suzie’s tears continue falling, creating dark spots in the pale mulch. She looks first at Tamara’s angry face. Then she looks at Ms. Geri’s patient eyes. All of their friends are watching, waiting to see what Ms. Geri will do.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers at first. Then louder: “I’m sorry I called you a baby, Tamara. That was mean.”

The playground holds its breath. Ms. Geri’s face softens, pride filling her eyes as she watches the small child learning one of life’s hardest lessons.  

Tamara stares at Suzie’s tear-streaked face, fists clenched tightly, eyes scrunched. Then she stares down at the dark, tear-stained spots in the mulch.

“But I’M NOT sorry!” The words burst out of Tamara. “She’s mean first, and I don’t care if she’s crying!”

Ripping her hand free from Ms. Geri’s, she stomps inside, straight to the timeout rug. Crossing her legs, she plops down in a huff. Outside, the other children scatter, ready to line up and go inside.

Ms. Geri gathers Suzie as she sobs. “Why doesn’t she like me? I apologized.”

Over Suzie’s red hair, Ms. Geri sees Tamara inside—arms crossed, jaw set. Still carrying her anger like a stone.

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Two hours pass. Tamara’s father arrives. Same position. Same scowl. Same burden.

“Come on, Tam.”

Tamara struggles to climb into her car seat, still carrying what she can put down with two simple words.

Suzie spent the remaining afternoon outside on the swings, the good one and the bad squeaky one, playing with her friends, who all watched her choose the hard path.

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Sometimes, it takes courage to be willing to let go.

What stones are you carrying? What burdens could you put down with those two little words, ‘I’m sorry?’

Suzie walks away, unfettered by the day’s event. Tamara walks away, holding her stone in a tight-fisted grip.

Your turn. Choose light.

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