THE SWING WAS STILL THERE. The red swing with the bright yellow rubber seat. Though scuff marks were now strewn across her face, war scars; wrinkles that exposed her years. As I plopped on to her she creaked, the sigh of an aged one. Of one who had forgotten her old friend, memories suppressed under the latter day toils that more recent acquaintances had brought with them. I received a cold, awkward embrace as I latched onto her arms; her frosty chains revealing the first signs of dementia, she had forgotten me. I waddled, nervously at first, to and fro at a gentle pace, my boots lightly scuffing the turf. I would eventually lift my feet, a newfound, liberating, confidence birthing with each swing. We soon began to warm to each other again, rekindled, old pals, now working together in tandem to defy gravity. My spirit awoken, hers too. A little smile began to crack like dawn; and in the moment, I felt again myself, alive — a happy, wholesome child.
I’d savour that feeling for a few more seconds before jumping off. Time to vacate the seat and let someone else have a ride I suppose. She had always and would always be there, an abandoned swing with roots deeply entrenched into the playgrounds of my youth.
I would be back again. Someday. Perhaps.