Sandbox

But these measures only apply in winter.
Because in those cold months, the sandbox stands empty.
Then spring starts humming around the corner, and life returns to the sandy corral.
Children take charge — and some of them decide what the rules of play will be.

It’s late morning over the sandbox, and the scene is already in full swing.
A rather chubby child with red hair has declared himself today’s alpha. Like ever other day.
Just outside his line of fire, a bronze-skinned child with jet-black hair is busy with his own thoughts.
At the top edge of the box, a kid wearing a Maple Leaf T-shirt is playing quietly.
To the south, a girl sits above the scene — calm, observant, almost regal.
Nearby, small hands are busily shaping the sandy ground.
Oh — and almost forgotten: the child in the northeast corner.
It does nothing. It just sits and watches.

From the red-haired boy’s direction comes a squeaky voice:
“Give me your digger! Now!”

The addressed child looks him in the eye, makes a friendly but firm gesture of refusal, and raises his elbows slightly.
The chubby one’s face turns redder; a bit of drool gathers at the corner of his mouth as he takes a deep breath.
But the calm stare of the Maple-Leaf kid unsettles him so much that he turns away.
And who happens to be standing there?
Exactly — the bronze one.

“I want your pocket money!” he squeals.
“¿Qué?” comes the quiet, fearless reply.

The red-haired boy freezes when he meets the girl’s firm gaze.

Then, slowly, movement returns to the sandy world.
The Maple-Leaf boy starts whispering to the quiet child beside him.
That seems to annoy the red-haired one even more.

“Hey, you! Talk to me, not your neighbour! Or I’ll take your spot!”

But the two keep whispering,
completely ignoring him.

The world is a sandbox.
In every corner there’s either eager activity or anxious waiting.
Slowly, the air inside this square but open arena begins to heat up.
The players start making new alliances, new friendships, new tensions.

It’s no longer cheerful playtime.
It feels more like an emergency drill.

Around the sandbox, the mothers watch.
They see how the atmosphere has changed in such a short time.
Some frown. Others shrug.

One mother says softly:
“That’s just how he is, my little one.”

And then adds, almost philosophically:
“Playfully speaking.”