Tire Swing

Sometimes, when I’m tired of now, I go back to eleven years old. It’s summer, and I’m swinging on a tire swing. I’m scared of the bees nest clinging to the wooden playset, but the ants crawling dutifully in the dirt don’t phase me as I twirl in endless circles. I make my head spin and my stomach twist, the fading sky and trees and neighbor’s houses blending together so they look like the watercolor artwork I’d gifted my mom, now hanging proudly on the fridge. The family next door has lit a campfire, burning embers sending their warm aura into the air, and I breathe in the smoke as it sticks to my hair and clothes. Soon my mom will call me in for dinner, but I don’t mind. I’ll go back outside as soon as my plate is clean, roll in the sweet grass as promising stars twinkle above me. The tire swing always awaits me.

Now, it seems as though the sky isn’t as vibrant as it used to be, the clouds less cotton candy-like, more uneasy. I don’t draw or paint and I can’t remember the last time my mom told me she’s proud of me. Playgrounds are distant memories, the neighborhood I grew up in is more than one thousand miles away. I still hate bees, but I also dislike talking to people, my body, and the distance between me and my dad. I don’t look forward to dinner, nor am I called. Chocolate isn’t as sweet. Sunsets don’t represent beauty, but another wearing day coming around and the tasks it inevitably promises. My endless green backyard has been replaced with stone and a pool, and although it’s a change smaller me would have adored, these days I can’t stand the sight of myself in a swimsuit. It’s summer, but now I’m seventeen, and I miss my tire swing.