The Swings

I've written about my dad before.

I've about his addiction to romance novels.

I've written about how he's the salt of the earth.

I've written about how he's not, technically speaking, my dad.

But...I haven't written about the swings.

My parents were nomadic while I was growing up, moving from house to house and town to town, halfway across the country and back. Every time we moved, Dad walked into the yard and sized up a tree for a Swing.

These swings were not simple rope and wood concoctions. They were masterpieces. Some of them sat all three of us older girls in a row. Others were smaller, forcing us to take turns. We waited eagerly for Dad to come push us.

He didn't give us a safe little push. He swung us high into the trees until, with our heads hanging back, our mouths opened in screams of delight, our toes stretching, until we could almost touch the branches overhead.

"Higher!" We yelled. And he pushed us higher. Higher than conventional swing sets allowed. Higher until we felt the ropes in our hands go slack and the quick jerk of the swing falling back.

In Dad's swings, we took flight.

Happy birthday, Dad. I'm so glad that you're still making swings so my babies can fly.