A twist of rope. A twist of rope intertwined around her hands as she braided together the rope to make the swing. She had tried to do this over and over to no avail. For reason if he was so much better at things. He had always been. She hadn’t asking for help. Help out loud or quietly to herself. She held the pieces in her hand and wondered how should I figure it out. Should I google it, find a book, call someone? For some reason the braids won’t come together, in the same way. The weight of a child or an adult would make the swing buckle, the rope twist and turn and make it impossible to swing.
What was it about this swing she kept coming back to. She had spent hours on this swing, hours. Closing her eyes and seeing patterns of light inside in her eyes for only for her to see. She never got dizzy, never disoriented, she just kept flying and swinging. She tried to go on a swing when she was an adult. Not the tree swing type but the public park make. She swung with the children, up and down, and it wasn’t like before. She felt ill, she wasn’t sure if she could keep going. She felt she might lose her lunch. Or lose something. She wasn’t sure what. Wasn’t sure what. But the up and down felt strange not the solace and peace of her childhood but adult trying to relieve something that should be left behind. Maybe this piece, this piece that once was was gone. Gone. Or had to be felt in another way. It’s funny because hide and seek and grass fights and pretending and imagining great and strange things felt the same. It felt freeing.
But something about the swinging, the controlled movement the freedom of her childhood was lost in the rites of passage. Maybe it was something about equilibrium. Maybe it was something about fear. Maybe it was something about flying. Flying too high. Higher, higher, again, again the kids yell to her to push them. She runs back and forth between the swings, between the swings. Freeing them from the limits of the ground. Up and down they go. They must enjoy it now for being a kid adult is hard work. They might not be able to do it later. So I push them too long, too long as I push myself to feel that feeling again and not be afraid. Not be afraid of what will be next. When I fly. Flying above. The freedom I once had will be mine again. It will be mine again. Fear of flying forgotten.