I run to the swings.
I'm six years old and the sun is shining.
My legs become the wind and I'm flying through the air screaming for more as I sit on the plastic seat of the swings.
I'm eight years old and the sun is shining.
I pump my legs and I giggle as I scream for more as the metal chains of the seat glean in the sunlight, practically glowing.
I'm twelve years old and the sun is bright.
I smile as the wind whispers in my ears secrets of freedom as my legs power me through the air whilst nobody stands behind me to push.
I feel like I can do anything.
I'm sixteen years old and the sun glows with clouds in the horizon.
I watch the world around me as I fly through it. I do not know which part of the world I want to land in, but I hope to make an impact.
I'm twenty years old and it's partially sunny and partially cloudy.
I admire the clouds as the plastic seat brings me closer to them and then tugs me away from them. I'm so close to them. I can do it.
I grip the seat tightly with one hand and reach out,
but am harshly pulled away.
I'm thirty six years old and fluffy light grey clouds coat the sky.
My legs strain to pump as high as I did when I was six, but I smile anyway and grip the slightly rusted chains holding the plastic seat. I no longer reach for the clouds, but instead reach for the stars. I can do it.
I'm forty nine years old and grey clouds are lined throughout as far as I can see.
My legs ache and my back hurts as my legs swing back and forth.
I'm fifty six years old and its cloudy out.
I cannot reach the stars. I settle for the clouds.
I'm sixty two years old.
The clouds are out of reach. My swing has lost it's color
I'm seventy six years old.
The swing slows. The chains have rusted
I'm eighty three years old.
I wished I didn't settle for the clouds.
I'm ninety one years old. The sun is bright and gleaming.
I walk slowly towards the swing. My steps are carefully, approaching the swing as if I hadn't run to it thousands of times. I sit on the swing. I can no longer pump my legs. I no longer reach for the clouds. The stars are out of reach. The swing has rust.
I smile.
The sound of giggles comes closer and I look towards the sound as a young girl approaches the swing next to me.
Gleaming chains.
Plastic seat.
Sunny day.
She pumps her legs, and they become the wind.
She is flying.
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Word count- 444
Published- July 1st, 2024
ok girl waht
but tbh I'm a whore for swings they're so fun
