The Swing Under the Oak

There's a single wooden swing hanging from the old oak at the edge of the park, and I sit on it every evening after work. I'm forty-seven. I don't care who sees.

I push off with my feet, lean back and watch the leaves go by above me. The rope creaks. Kids on the playground nearby yell. Someone is always walking a dog that is too big for them.

For ten minutes I don't think about emails or bills or what to make for dinner. I just swing.

Last week an older woman with a cane waited for her turn and then swung, laughing, while her grandson pushed her gently. When she got off, she said, "I forgot how good that feels." I knew exactly what she meant.