The Swing
Some sights in the world are never forgotten, and they are always tied with a feeling that drags or lifts us in our times of thought when alone, both leaving a longing pain due to the beauty that cannot be duplicated. A sight that will die with me is the wooden bench swing on the top of the hill at Vineyard Terrace, a place I used to be able to call my home.
My ten year old self climbed up the old road to reach the swing every once in a while, always feeling enchanted, as if I floated up the path. Kicking small stones whilst putting one foot in front of the other, the breeze picked up brushing my face like a caress from a loving mother. Midway through the journey I head just off to my right to see the horses that go out on the private property every day in the evening. I reach around in the pocket of my cotton jacket to pull out baby carrots to lure them so I could pet the bridge of their noses, comforting them and myself with every touch. The brown hairs felt smooth on my fingers with a repeated downwards stroke, and my cheeks raised as I cracked a soft smile. When the carrots are gone, I continue my venture up the hill with the sun beginning to move towards the horizon, from its happy, bright place in the sky to the beautiful colors of its slow exit. The road gets slimmer until it reaches an end, but an entrance to a tall grass field. It is the season where the grass is a light tan, breathing heavily with the wind that had picked up even more now that I had reached the top of my town. I take my first steps into the grass which is covering me like a blanket up to the tops of my knees. As I move delicately through the vegetation, crickets singing softly, I see the first peek of the aged swing, made of oaky looking boards. As it is approached, the smell of the heavy earth seeped out from the wood. The swing hung from two rusty chains attached to the strong willow tree that draped its leaves off the branches that thinned towards the tips, and above the swing hung a single light bulb covered in dirt and age. I never did know how the light bulb would ever work, having it been in an open field as it was with no wires, but I never questioned the magic of the place in its entirety. I placed one hand on the bench and one on the handle, working to maneuver my body onto the swing. In front of my eyes lied my home town, sitting behind a glistening lake and in front of a vibrant sunset. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the warm, dry air as I admired the beauty of being alone but not experiencing loneliness. I did nothing but watch the sun tuck itself back under the mountains to rest for a new day. Time seemed to not exist while my mind wandered off to the pockets of my imagination. There was no buzz in my pocket and no stress in the world; it was just me and the swing, my feet dangling off the edge just grazing the soft top of the grass. The warmth that filled my lungs made its way to my stomach and chest, a feeling that was not felt in any other moment. My troubles subsided on the hill, and the world felt at peace. Pleasanton was so beautiful this time of year. After the sun’s final moments of visibility in the pink sky, a dark cloak covered the earth with holes that shined light for my path down the hill. This was my signal to leave my beloved spot for the night and see it another day, so I hopped off the bench, my feet crunching the ground, and headed towards home. As I walked, I longed the smell and touch of the swing which held me perfectly.
After years and years of leaving that swing, I wonder if the grass has grown taller or if the tree has stayed stable. I wonder if the sight is still the same or if anyone else has discovered my secret spot since I left; but most importantly, I wonder if anything will ever give me the same feeling I felt: the warmth, comfortableness, and sense of no time. I am yet to rediscover the feeling, but I hope for the day to come where it is fulfilled; where I feel once again like the girl who sat on the swing at the hilltop.
