Photo by Simply Heather
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The old tyre swing hung listlessy from the ancient tree outside the kitchen window. The blue yachting rope still holding it strongly in place.
If the wind whistled strongly round the house in the field, it swung nonchalantly. No more was it encircled by young legs, clinging to it, climbing on it.
But when she'd left home, I could stand, at the kitchen window, and see her, as she was, years ago. Hair tied up in a top-knot, or flowing loose round fer face, a brown curtain obscuring her laughing face as she swung round and round on the old tyre swing.
I never cut it down. You can't sever memories like that. It earned the right to remain.
christine
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10 comments:
Water logged after the rain,
pushed to free the water on the
unsuspecting friend
Laughter
giggles
freedom
on an old tire swing.
We always wanted a tire swing
our father said he could build one
but we never found a tire.
The old tyre swing hung listlessy from the ancient tree outside the kitchen window. The blue yachting rope still holding it strongly in place.
If the wind whistled strongly round the house in the field, it swung nonchalantly. No more was it encircled by young legs, clinging to it, climbing on it.
But when she'd left home, I could stand, at the kitchen window, and see her, as she was, years ago. Hair tied up in a top-knot, or flowing loose round fer face, a brown curtain obscuring her laughing face as she swung round and round on the old tyre swing.
I never cut it down. You can't sever memories like that. It earned the right to remain.
I hedged an awful lot before posting this prose. I was afraid of offending someone with such a macabre piece for what is essentially a joyful picture. I've been having rather horrible nightmares lately and it's coming out in my writing.
Laura-Jayne, if you feel it's too much, please don't hesitate to delete this post; I assure you I will not be offended.
Tire Swing
From the moment he hung it, she swung daily on the tire swing, her laughter echoing throughout the garden, drifting up into the windows, wrapping him in its warmth. Oh, how he had loved to hear her voice ringing with merriment as she swayed freely on that old wheel.
Now, only the echo remains, clinging desperately to the flowers, not quite reaching him in his den where he hides day after day, drowning in his loss; the grief of losing her, virtually suffocating him.
Until today. Today he heard laughter. Entranced, he wandered over to the window and gazed down onto the estate. He watched, mesmerized, as the old swing began to sway. He could hear laughter—her laughter—wandering up to him, luring him.
“Come and play, Daddy!” he heard her cry, his heart leaping with joy. He had been waiting so long to hear her voice again; waiting for her to call him to join her. There was no hesitation in his step as he leapt from the window, eager to unite with his daughter once again.
Wow! Monica Manning, that is so interesting and intriguing! I really like that piece!
Swinging in the sun
A bit heavy
A bit dark
Yet, as a weight pulling on the end of a rope
It creates happiness as it swings
It lifts souls to be lighter
It makes faces brighter
The tire swing
so much depends upon black rubber
contorted into a donut filled
with a child, so small
and resilent
she swings on her stomach,
in the superman position,
with her arms and legs in the air.
her father hung the swing to
keep the old oak tree company,
and the girl spent moments idle
in the tire swings womb,
allowing the heavy rubber to mother her.
to love and be loved.
the tree needs the swing,
the swing needs the girl,
the girl's indifferent to both.
they satisfy her tomboyish childhood years,
but they're ticked away by
the pendulum motion of the tire swing.
now the tire swing is still,
loved by the tree and
kissed by the sun.
Her Dad was trying so hard.
He had so much fun putting the tire swing up and walking down his memory lane. He described each of his frolicking childhood friends and the countless hours of youthful fun that they had because of his tire swing in his backyard.
And, that's what brought her out here again to stare at the tire. She couldn't help but think of what an odd backyard adornment it was and why most kids want to hop on and go for a spin.
But, not Cindy.
To her, it was an old, used tire on a rope. Not inviting. Not appealing. And, her memory lane didn't have any friends with which to enjoy playing in the backyard.
After a minute or two of staring at the monstrosity, she turned around, went back inside the house and flopped down on the couch.
Her friend, the book, was sitting on the table inviting her over. And, then Cindy disappeared into someone else's life within its pages. One that was full of friends, frolicking and probably a tire swing or two.
I don't remember ever actually swinging on the old tire swing hanging in our yard. Instead, I remember spinning it round and round until the rope was too tight to take another turn and the old tire started pushing back against my hands in protest.
It wouldn't be easy to get in at that point. The swing would be a good foot higher off the ground than normal and climbing in would require precariously balancing on one foot while struggling to hold the swing in place.
Careful manuevering and a kind of gangly athleticism my thirty year old body can only barely recall would finally allow me to slip one leg in, my hands clenching the old rope hard enough to leave my palms raw as I finally gave up my foothold on the ground and let go.
And then I was flying, spinning so fast that the rest of the world became nothing but a blur of tree and house and sky, the frantic beating of my heart drowning out everything but the moment.
If I leaned back my stomach would clench, my arms tremble from the strain of holding the rope... but it was worth it to see how long I could slip through gravity's fingers and hold on to freedom.
Inevitably the swing would become wild as it unwound, the arc becoming wider and more erratic the longer I held on until each turn began bringing the tree far too close for comfort.
Fear would set in and I'd carefully pull myself up, my exhausted arms wrapping around the knotted rope while I rested my head against the sun warmed rubber and waited for the world to right itself again...
Closing my eyes, I relaxed into the swing's gentle sway once the worst was over and waited for the dizziness to pass...
... and then I'd do it all over again.
Special comment for Monica... never hesitate to post what you are moved to write. This was a unique and moving piece of writing that required no apologies.
We are not about always happy bright things, and some of the best writing is dark and touches us at the most primal levels.
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