By Brian B. French
There are sounds that mark the passages of our lives—wedding bells, newborn cries, the rip of wrapping paper on Christmas morning. But if you asked me to choose just one sound that I could bottle up and keep forever, it would be this: the bright, sweet symphony of children at play.
For three years, we lived behind an elementary school. When some of our friends came to visit, they’d wince at the noise drifting over from the playground. “How do you stand it?” they’d ask. But they didn’t understand. They couldn’t have known that this particular brand of noise would become the soundtrack to three years of my life.
Every school day, twice a day, my backyard fence transformed into the boundary between my small, quiet world and theirs—that electric universe of childhood where everything matters enormously and nothing matters at all. The sound rises like a wave at precisely 10:15 in the morning and again at noon: laughter, shouts, the rhythmic squeak of swings, the hollow bounce of rubber balls, the scuffle of sneakers on asphalt. It’s not one sound, really, but a hundred sounds woven together—a living tapestry of joy and competition, imagination and friendship.
But there was a time when that sound meant something even more precious to me. My daughter Grace was nine when we moved into that house. She’d been nervous about starting at a new school, leaving her old friends behind, being the new kid in fourth grade when everyone else had already formed their groups. But Grace has always had a gift for making friends, and within weeks, she’d found her people.
We already had Missy, our border collie, who’d been with us since Grace was a toddler. Missy was smart, energetic, and intensely devoted to Grace. A few years earlier, we added a gray bunny rabbit to our family menagerie. We let the bunny run free during the day, giving it the freedom to live a full life of being a bunny.
I’ll never forget the first time Grace came running to the fence during her lunch break, her face flushed and excited, her ponytail swinging. “Dad! Can my friends come meet Missy and the bunny?” Behind her, three girls pressed against the chain-link fence, all waving enthusiastically.
That became a seldom but important ritual. Whenever the weather was decent and I was home, Grace and her friends would spend 5 minutes of lunch recess at our fence. Missy, who seemed to understand the importance of these visits, would sit perfectly still as small hands reached through to pat her black and white fur, her intelligent eyes watching each child with gentle attention. The bunny would hop around his run, occasionally pausing to twitch his nose at his admirers, suddenly dignified and important.
The sound during those visits was different from the general playground cacophony. It was softer, sweeter—a kind of concentrated joy. Grace’s voice explaining to her friends that border collies were herding dogs, “that’s why Missy always tries to keep us all together.” The eruption of giggles when Missy would gently lick someone’s fingers through the fence. The way they’d all call out “Bye, Missy! Bye, bunny!” when the bell rang, always too soon.
I heard fragments of their lives through that fence. Lost library books and upcoming soccer games. Who was being mean on the playground and which teacher gave too much homework. Missy heard secrets whispered into her fur.
Those three years in that house were special in ways I didn’t fully appreciate at the time. Now Grace is grown, living her own life in NYC city. Missy passed away eight years ago, at the dignified age of fifteen, still sharp and devoted to the end. The bunny lived another few years a good long life for a rabbit. We’ve moved on to other houses, other neighborhoods, but none quite like that one.
I drive past elementary schools sometimes, and if the windows are down, I’ll hear it—that sound. The bright sweet chaos of recess, the layered voices of children at play. It stops me every time. For just a moment, I’m back at that fence, watching my nine-year-old daughter introduce her friends to her dog, presiding over her little kingdom with such pride.
That sound is still my favorite, though it carries a bittersweet note now. It reminds me that the best moments are often fleeting, that we don’t always know we’re in them until they’re over.
Here’s what I’ve learned: that sound—that joyful noise of children at play—is bigger than any single moment, any single place. It’s the sound of life insisting on hope. Children at play don’t know about the complicated lives adults lead and that’s a good thing. They don’t know yet about the thousand ways life will surprise and challenge them. They only know the perfect present tense of this moment, this game, this friendship, this afternoon.
My favorite sound in the world isn’t one I make or one made for me. It’s a sound that didn’t know I was listening, didn’t care if I was there at all. It’s a sound that continues in schoolyards everywhere, echoing off playground equipment and brick walls and chain-link fences. And somehow, knowing it goes on—that somewhere, right now, children are laughing and playing and making the kind of memories they’ll carry with them—makes the remembering both sweeter and sadder.
On quiet days, when the world feels too still, I close my eyes and I can hear it again. That bright, beautiful noise. Grace’s voice rising above the rest. Missy’s tail thumping against the fence. And for just a moment, I’m back there, when my life fit in a backyard behind an elementary school, and the sound of children at play was the sweet soundtrack of my life and a dog named missy.
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