The Swings

The wind wooshes against her ears, tugs her hair backward, as her feet reach to touch the blue of the sky. She kicks her feet back. Her hair flings forward and she plummets. Her legs stretch out again and her feet are now framed against the green of new grass. With each pass she flies higher. She flies so high that the chain of the swing has a little slack. For just a moment she is weightless before the snap of gravity pulls her back down.

She is alone at the park.

It is barely a park. It is a swing set in a patch of grass surrounded by buildings. The buildings are blank and gray. The walkways are still covered in the detritus of recently melted snow. Her face is turned toward the sun she basks in the apricity of the day. It is finally warm enough to play outside.

She is alone and lonely. Each pump of her legs trying to push that feeling a little further away.

They moved. They moved in the middle of the school year. They moved in the middle of the school year, to a new town, with new kids, and a new language. She is alone, lonely, and angry. With each pump of her legs, she is trying move through the feeling. She is trying to get past it, over it, or maybe she is just trying to get away.

Her eyes squeeze shut as she imagines she can fly.

The motion next to her is slow at first but soon rising to meet her own. She did not notice the moment when the swing next to her began to move but soon the arches of their pendulums are moving in contrast to the other. For the briefest of moments, the swings are adjacent, the force of the motion tugging on one another. The two girls face each other, their eyes meet, and in each other they recognize a moment of joy.

She smiles. The light of the sun is no longer just touching the surface of her skin, but it warms all of her.

She is no longer alone.

The swings race past each other. On each pass the push farther, they fly higher, over and away. Laughter tumbles along the walkways and echoes off the surrounding windows and walls. Between wisps of hair, they catch small glimpses of each other.

They pump until their legs and lungs hurt. They swing until the wind has whipped their hair into a mess of tangles, the tips of their fingers are numb, their noses bright red, and there is a notice able sharp edge of cold in the air.

The passes of the swings slow.

Her legs are dangling as her toes drag two parallel lines through the patch of sand where feet have worn through the grass. She watches as the girl next to her launches herself into the air and lands solidly on both feet. The girl turns back and waives. She lingers for a moment, runs, and disappears into a gray door on a gray house.

It is dusk.

Her swing is now completely still. She is alone, but no longer lonely. The links of the chain are cold against her cheek as she pauses to linger and listen to the clanking sound of empty swing next to her. It is still reverberating with the sudden motion of the jump. She takes one last look at that gray door leading into that gray house and then stands up and slowly walks through the grey door of the grey house right next door.

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