#onthatswing

There is an indelible picture seared into my memory like a brand of myself, as a cantankerous old man trapped in the body of a little boy pushing you on a swing Pushing and pushing, ever more forcefully watching you arc, higher and higher enjoying the chaotic music of your exuberant giggles Pushing and listening Pushing and listening Smiling my face into a carnival mask of joy and delight reveling in the bond that cannot be equaled cannot be broken Until one, final, all-consuming shove propels you as high as you can go and the last thing I see is your silhouette, ringed by the sun I drop to my knees while you and the swing return back the line of the arc to strike me full in the face and carve a long, vicious crevice down the center of my skull Today, in the mirror a little boy, trapped in the body of a cantankerous old man is running his fingers over the proud scar that still remains and wondering Wouldn’t it be something if we could hold onto a bond as good and real and pure as the one we shared in that moment on that swing for even a tiny fraction of the time I’ve held onto this memory or this wound?

There is an indelible picture seared into my memory like a brand of myself, as a cantankerous old man trapped in the body of a little boy pushing you on a swing Pushing and pushing, ever more forcefully watching you arc, higher and higher enjoying the chaotic music of your exuberant giggles Pushing and listening Pushing and listening Smiling my face into a carnival mask of joy and delight reveling in the bond that cannot be equaled cannot be broken Until one, final, all-consuming shove propels you as high as you can go and the last thing I see is your silhouette, ringed by the sun I drop to my knees while you and the swing return back the line of the arc to strike me full in the face and carve a long, vicious crevice down the center of my skull Today, in the mirror a little boy, trapped in the body of a cantankerous old man is running his fingers over the proud scar that still remains and wondering Wouldn’t it be something if we could hold onto a bond as good and real and pure as the one we shared in that moment on that swing for even a tiny fraction of the time I’ve held onto this memory or this wound?

There is an indelible picture seared into my memory like a brand of myself, as a cantankerous old man trapped in the body of a little boy pushing you on a swing Pushing and pushing, ever more forcefully watching you arc, higher and higher enjoying the chaotic music of your exuberant giggles Pushing and listening Pushing and listening Smiling my face into a carnival mask of joy and delight reveling in the bond that cannot be equaled cannot be broken Until one, final, all-consuming shove propels you as high as you can go and the last thing I see is your silhouette, ringed by the sun I drop to my knees while you and the swing return back the line of the arc to strike me full in the face and carve a long, vicious crevice down the center of my skull Today, in the mirror a little boy, trapped in the body of a cantankerous old man is running his fingers over the proud scar that still remains and wondering Wouldn’t it be something if we could hold onto a bond as good and real and pure as the one we shared in that moment on that swing for even a tiny fraction of the time I’ve held onto this memory or this wound?

On That Swing