Summer Afternoons

The swing always creaks and groans steadily, like it’s speaking its own secret language. Creak. Groan. Creak. Groan. It reminds me of a bird who always repeats that same word that is in my head too, over and over again. Like hello hello hello. Or mountains eat dirt mountains eat dirt. Sometimes the whole set jumps and bounces and shivers. We like to feel as though we are flying, me and Liz. Creak. We like to touch the sky with our feet. Groan. I wiggle my toes and feel the wind tickle them back. I lean forward waiting for the right moment. Backward. Forward. Backward. Forward. I pull my arms out until the plastic around the chains is squeezing me tight. Backward. I get ready. Forward. A little farther. I wait until my feet are touching the sky again and then I jump. The ground smacks into me but I stand up quickly as though we are good friends. As though I’m a circus acrobat. This? This is nothing. Anyone can jump out of a swing. The dust billows like an audience surrounding me. Applauding.
-from Chelsea