A life in the face of an eventual death.

It's a playground of sorts. Swinging back and forth, push, pull, closer and further away. A see-saw of highs and lows, the heights reached and the inevitable fall to the ground. The monkey bars gripped so tightly, hanging white-knuckled and shallow-breathed, struggling to continue to the next bar to grab. A balancing act atop the rope bridge, carefully moving over something crossable. And through it all, the white crunchy sand that fills each pocket, each sock, each fold of skin, so that always our delicate marshmallow bodies follow us around without our forgetting them.