Swing

A work in progress

I’m soaring into a vast sea, propelled by an unseen force, where there are hues of blue and sunset orange pasted across the expanse. When the wind blows past so too do little whipping strands, around my cheeks and across my forehead. They sting, but I like it. Each time I begin to fall, backwards into a deep-worn rut, I am assaulted by a discomfort in my stomach but instead of fear there is thrill. Up on the ridge to the right lies the ruins of an old burned house where once there were daisies grown in the window and smoke seeping from the stack. Off to the left there sat a field of overgrown green and colorful ribbons strung this way and that. The grass was as tall as I’d ever seen it and I wondered where the cattle ran off to. Down the little road there used to be a maroon wagon with chipped paint and a squeaky wheel. At the top of the world I could always see it, half-buried beneath a heap of wildflowers, but today it was gone.

Things seemed different, but then they weren’t. Scorched marks, tall grass, and the missing plaything made little difference as I flew across my familiar world while memories continued to stir. The air smelled better up top than it did down below as if something about being in the clouds was more right than anything else. But it never stayed as simply clouds and sweet memories. Eventually- and much to my dismay- I always came back down in the end. Back to a broken home, an abandoned field, and the bitterness of knowing that this place would never again be as it once was. Home would never be right again, this I knew, but even back then nothing felt more right than holding fast to that rubber ring; nothing compares to that old tire swing.

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