Livora Gracely

Some joys come back every time we let them.

The girl had discovered a problem with the sky.

It was too low.

“Higher!”

The swing rushed forward.

Her shoes came first, two small soles flying toward the afternoon. Then came the coral skirt, the white sleeves, and finally a five-year-old face carrying a laugh much too large for it.

Her hair flew backward.

The ropes tightened.

For one wonderful second, the whole garden dropped away.

Then gravity remembered her.

Back she went.

Coming Back

The swing creaked beneath the branch.

Eeeek.

Backward.

Leaves appeared above her.

Forward.

The meadow opened.

Backward.

Tree.

Forward.

Sky.

Every journey was exactly the same.

This did not trouble her at all.

“Higher!”

A push came from behind.

The wooden seat moved faster.

Cool air slipped beneath her sleeves and rushed across her cheeks. Her fingers tightened around the rough rope. It smelled faintly of dry grass and warm wood, and somewhere nearby the daisies were doing absolutely nothing interesting.

The girl considered this their loss.

Forward she flew again.

This time her shoes seemed enormous.

The world came rushing toward her—the fence, the flowers, the pale field beyond.

Then everything stopped.

Not slowly.

Just one tiny suspended moment at the top of the arc.

Her stomach floated.

Her hair floated.

Even her laugh seemed to hang in the air.

Then—

Back.

She squealed all the way down.

Higher

“Higher!”

Another push.

Eeeek.

Forward.

Back.

“Higher!”

The person behind the swing laughed.

“You’re already high.”

This was clearly irrelevant information.

“Higher!”

So the swing climbed again.

A yellow leaf spun beside her for half a second before losing the race. Her skirt fluttered around her knees. The ropes rubbed softly against the branch overhead.

Forward.

Back.

Forward.

Back.

There was no surprise left in the game.

She knew exactly what would happen.

The swing would rise.

The garden would shrink.

Her stomach would become briefly uncertain about its responsibilities.

Then she would return.

Perhaps that was part of the pleasure.

Some joys do not need novelty. A favorite story can be requested when every ending is already known. A familiar song can begin, and the body somehow prepares for the favorite part. Small children can hide behind the same curtain twenty times and remain astonished that anyone finds them.

Knowing what comes next does not always make delight smaller.

Sometimes it gives delight somewhere to wait.

The girl had no time for this theory.

She was approaching the sky again.

One Last Time

“Higher!”

The final push was enormous.

Or at least enormous enough for a five-year-old.

Up she went.

Her legs stretched forward.

Her head tipped back.

The laugh came out before she reached the top.

For one second she seemed to own the entire pale peach afternoon.

Then the swing returned.

Slower this time.

Forward.

Back.

Forward.

Back.

The ropes softened.

The breeze left her hair.

At last her shoes brushed the grass.

She dragged them gently through the daisies until the wooden seat stopped.

Silence.

Her cheeks were pink. Her hair had become an independent project. Both hands still held the ropes.

“That’s enough?” came the voice behind her.

She sat very still.

Apparently considering retirement.

Then she turned around.

Her grin returned.

“Again.”