My oldest daughter smiles as she flies higher on the swing set. The other two girls scamper around the playground equipment shouting "You're it!" back and forth at each other.

My wife has embarked upon a quest for Starbucks. She'll be back later.

I am in a fog, which she has mistaken for being tired. I don't disabuse her of the notion. The truth is much harder to relate.

If this was any other playground, I would be right there with my kids. I'd be making a fool out of myself, and well on my way to joyous exhaustion.

But not here.

The beautifully constructed playground on Giant City Road bears silent testimony to tragedy wrought by youthful mistakes.

Fifteen years ago, a grief stricken man bought the old farm house that formerly occupied this land. He had it leveled, and razed the barn. Manicured grass now stands where weeds and cat tails used to flourish.

A plaque memorializes the man's only son.

Sixteen years ago, three kids heading back from the beach got stuck behind a slow moving car. The boy wielding the steering wheel had plenty of horsepower on tap and punched it into a pass.

Unfortunately, he misjudged oncoming traffic. He made it about halfway and realized there wasn't enough space to finish. A quick jerk of the steering wheel brought his Mustang GT back over into his own lane.

Or, at least it would have, if another car wasn't there already.

Rear bumper snagged front bumper. The Mustang yawed sideways and left the road. It cut a graceful arc across a shallow drainage ditch. Now traveling backwards, its tires spat rooster tails of dirt skyward. Twin furrows trailed the car as it crossed some poor person's front yard.

I can only imagine the panic on the faces of the three occupants as the sports car headed back toward the road.

Hands clenched white on the steering wheel.

Loose items flying about inside the cabin.

Swear words.

...then impact.

A drainage culvert kept the Mustang from reaching the two-laner.

I arrived two minutes later. Other people were there already. A couple frantic souls attempted to render aid to the driver, now convulsing on the ground. The front seat passenger was a pretty girl. Blood mated her blond hair, but at least she lived. She cried her eyes out in the arms of a matronly woman.

She would be the only survivor. The less said about the state of the third occupant, the better.

If you are a hard-core speeder like I am, you do certain things to your car. Some relate to safety, others relate to speed. Still others relate to "anonymity."

One such change to my car had to do with lights. Speeders expect to get tagged by the police. Some pull over and pray for leniency. Some nut cases run. Others bury themselves in traffic and change the "tail light signature" of their car in an effort to become harder to pick out.

I fell under the last category until that day. A flick of a switch had lights flashing like a construction vehicle. I stopped and tried to help as best I could.

Ten minutes blurred by. Police arrived. The EMTs did their best, but the driver died on the scene.

They didn't bother with the high schooler in the rear seat. He perished instantly when the back of the Mustang compressed against the concrete culvert. I figured the car hit around 30 miles per hour. The car was two feet shorter than it should have been.

That scene haunted me for years. I wish I could say it completely cured me of aggressive driving - but I would be lying. I still drive fast, though I take far fewer risks.

Looking at my kids playing on the structure, I reconsider. They are here and now; my greatest treasures.

My oldest smiles at me from the swing.

Sixteen years ago, a flatbed wrecker sat where she is, reeling in a mangled Mustang.

My youngest pauses to pick a dandelion.

A boy died there, surrounded by horrified onlookers.

My middle one reminds me so much of the crying girl, it hurts.

I look over at my wife, just now returning from a coffee run in our Camry.

The barely legal race car with the "speeder special" lights is gone.

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