Out of the room and out of the museum. A woman calls to me, but I keep going. Out the door and around the back. Across the lawn of a beautiful light green house. I find a swing set, which reminds me of my grandpa, and how we spent hours on them at the park. I try to think about what he'd say now and am sad that it's hard for me to remember his voice exactly.
My hands slide down the chains as I sit on the seat, thinking of when I was little. When my world wasn't such a heavy place. I used to love to swing as high as I could - leaning back, reaching for a bright blue sky with my feet - and it made me feel like I could do anything. Reach anything.
I lean my cheek against the cool chain, feeling like can't reach anything anymore. Then tears come.
Fish in a Tree, P155
Lynda Mullaly Hunt
ISBN 978-0-399-16259-6
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