Swing

Swinging is perhaps one of my favorite pastimes.

Just last night I went for a walk and went past the grade school.
The playground was calling me..."you know you want to."

The swing.  A playground favorite.  With the pump of my legs, swaying back and forth, I would be sky high in no time.

 I hastily made my way through the school yard,  heading for the chain linked seat that would send my body soaring into nostalgia.   I couldn't help but weigh my options.  Would I swing and eventually stop pumping my legs and let the seat come to stop on its own, OR impel my body off the swing while in mid air?   The instant I thought of it, in a flash I thought...hmmmm , better not do the latter.  There are mothers on site.  They would not appreciate the example.  

Mothers....where there are mothers there are kids.

One in particular.    
One little pip-squeak.  One little runny nosed, dirty faced, redhaired boy headed straight for the treasured seat, the only seat, MY SEAT, there for his taking.  Just steps ahead of me, I made my move.  
I was older and faster and bigger than he.  I could run circles around that little man.  Victory was mine.  That seat, at the moment, was gold.
As I approached the swing, I saw it.  The look.  
Anticipation.  
The thrill of what this simple piece of playground fun does to anyone who plants their bottom on the seat and works their legs to achieve the wind in their face as they sail back and forth through the air.

The look I couldn't deny. 
I no longer could be the selfish one.   
He looked and me and simply said, "can you push me?"
I was more than happy to oblige.