» the world upon a string
the swing set is old and covered in rust, she observes, catching glimpses of flaking shades of browns trickling from beneath torn up layers of red lacquer. it shivers and creaks (the combined effect of cruel winter winds, gruelling summer suns and the weights of a hundred little children) as she forces it into a pendulemic rhythm.
crack; the gratings of friction. coarse gravel against worn boot heels. kinetic to potential. whoosh; the sudden weightlessness of motion. thrashings against still air. gravity trying to catch up. repeat.
it's a singular waltz, backwards then forwards, forwards then backwards. it's repetitive, calming, hypnotic even. and her eyes begin to glaze. her mind is rushing, as it usually does. rushing with broken things, childish things. swing upwards. the feeling of nostalgia for a past she once knew. plunge back down. the crushing of reality that beckons for her with each passing second. volt back up. the leaps to insanity if only to escape from the merciless nows.
if i jump, will i fly? it's so easy, why not try? it's the musings of a child so appropriate for one such as she, who cranes her neck at to look at the stars and runs with her heroes in her sleep.
come now, just ten little fingers, then it's me and the sky. tiny fingers go slack, cold as the metal rings they're wrapped against. and she sucks in a breath, hunching close to her seat. eyes on the horizon, a thundering heart. she's just about ready for the spring out of her seat. and that's when she sees him.
and then she's ten again, with spiderman-themed bandaids plastered over knobbly knees and a hastily tied ponytail gathered at the back of her head. her grip tightens as her back straightens and she pretends not to be caught trying to be a superhero (again). with feet still kicking at air, she offers him a grin that's full of missing baby teeth and calls, "i bet you can't get as high as i am!"