Always, as I approach the playground I am greeted
by its black rubber-lipped smile. As if I just flew
back into time, the sight of the swing brings back
memories of the blue plastic swing set in my
grandmother's backyard and when I rush over
I am hugged by the narrow strip of rubber. So
perfectly it molds to my butt and though the
metal chain ropes holding me aloft are cold
as the air around me, the feel of it squeezed
between my two fists is empowering. I can
feel it reverberate through me as I make my
first push and instantly I'm flying. The cold
air whipping through my hair and numbing
my face doesn't matter; only the sight of the
treetops growing steadily closer and closer with
each arc upwards holds my attention. The chains
squeak their encouragement because they know,
and I know; just a little higher and I'll be there.
Rubbing the old chains leaves rusty love stains
and along with me I carry the penny scent of our
union on my hands. When the ride is over and I
return to earth, I sit, taking one more moment
to feel its tight embrace before getting up and
returning to reality.