The Swing

The Swing

The air smells like winter and sharp metal. His stroller waits in the grass while he runs for the playground, legs just fast enough to catch up with the rest of his body, his chest thrust out, and his arms up for balance.The castle feels brittle when he touches it, the plastic hard and cold. It turns his hands purple like a bruise, and he claps them together to warm them up. The static in the tunnel makes his hair stand at attention and his mom laughs. The swing is his favorite, with its bucket seat that wraps around his body like a blanket. His mom helps him in, and his small fingers grasp the edges, fists bunched tightly around the chains, as the swing moves through the air. He lifts his face towards the sun as its rays tickle his cheeks. He can feel its warmth through his jacket and across the back of his neck. His body is light and motion and he smiles. The leaves are brown and crisp, scattered across the playground like afterthoughts. He likes the way they whip towards his face when the wind grabs them. He shouts in delight at the newness of everything. His mom’s hand taps out a rhythm against his back as she pushes him higher and higher. He wants to kick the clouds and fly to the top of the trees. He can feel the mid-day quiet like a hush across his skin. He breathes and stretches, and his edges blur as he melts into the motion. Joy closes his eyes as his body sways, letting go.

The Monster

The Monster

The Castle

The Castle