She was a youngish mother. Her son was maybe 10. They had the whole playground to themselves. She wheeled his chair along the rubbery mat, and they were playing make-believe.

The woman couldn’t have been more than midthirties. She was dressed in some kind of service uniform. Like she worked at a big-box store of some kind.

She made explosion sounds with her mouth. Good ones, too. Speaking as a former little boy, you learn to appreciate good mouth-explosion sounds.

Their game was fun. The little boy was all in. He was smiling, letting out peals of glee, contributing constant ideas to the imaginary game.

“And here comes the star cruiser!” the boy shouts.

And Mom falls right into her role. Apparently Mom is playing the villian. She lifts him out of his chair, and he says a playful, “Nooooo!”

They are both laughing. Her arms are struggling beneath the weight of his little body. She’s a small woman. Built like a bird. But here she is, hoisting his heavy body to and fro.

She muscles him up the ladder to the slide.

The playtalk never stops, even though Mom is out of breath. She is still very much playing the role of Darth Vader, or a Klingon, or whatever other space malefactor is en vogue this day in age.

Meantime, the boy is definitely playing the role of the hero of this scenario, I can tell by the timbre of his voice. Like Dudley Do-Right, with a little bit of Mighty Mouse.

They arrive at the top of the platform, and Mom is out of breath. She’s been exerting a lot of energy. But she never misses a beat. She places him between her legs and, soon, they plunge down the slide together. The boy is squealing.

“Can we do that again?” the boy asks.

Mom is shot. I can see her energy reserves waning.

“Heck yes!” she replies.

She carries him to the top of the platform. They slide down. The boy is just getting his slidegoing-appetite whet. He wants to go again. So they do. And again.

Then again.

They ride the slide maybe a hundred times. The boy is having more fun that ought to be legally allowed.

After several jaunts down the slide, the boy has returned to his wheelchair, and Mom is on a bench. She’s not playacting anymore. She is too exhausted. Right now, she’s just trying to breathe.

“Are you okay, Mom?” the boy asks. He seems concerned.

Mom drinks an entire bottle of water. She’s almost too winded to talk. “I’m fine,” she mutters. “Just need a little rest.”

A few minutes go by. The boy is watching his mom rehabilitate from the physical exertion. Nobody is speaking.

Then, without preamble, Mom gets up again. She removes her work-uniform vest, and wipes her sweat. And she’s playacting again.

“I’m gonna GET YOU!” she says in a villain’s voice.

The boy is all smiles again. He is giggling when she lifts his little body out of the chair. She is carrying him toward the slide once more. Everyone is laughing and feeling fine. Including the few onlookers in the park, such as, but not limited to, the author of this story.

When Mom and son reach the stairs of the slide, they are shouting in make-believe voices. Making more explosion sounds. But the boy breaks character for a brief moment. And in a voice that is small and sincere, he says, “I love you so much, Mom.”

And well, that goes double for me.