There’s something strange and magical about a swing set. As a child, I always loved to swing. Nothing on the playground ever compared to the swings. Sometimes I would close my eyes and let the cool breeze be my friend, seemingly helping me rise off the ground. And when I opened my eyes, I would see that the swing had carried me far beyond the playground, far beyond the grove of trees along the edge of the field, but I was never afraid. It was the only thing that could truly make me forget life and simultaneously make me alive.

With time, though, I outgrew elementary school and moved on. By then swinging was a mere ghost of a memory and was almost forgotten. Almost. The summer before high school, I revisited my old playground. Like an abandoned house, it had all the nostalgic memories of a previous home, and yet, I was drawn to only the swings. If there’s something strange and magical about a swing set, it’s because it’s never empty for long. The air was still as I got on, the metal chains never made a sound. Slowly, as I swung, I remembered, no, embraced. I embraced the cool wind on my face, the thrill of being weightless, the knowledge of being too high for any trouble to reach. And I embraced what it was like to be a child again. Sometimes I can still see that teenage girl on the deserted playground. Just swinging.