Swinging

This evening Rachel and I travelled down the Garden State Parkway through pockets of traffic and open highway, across the causeway and down Bay Avenue to our new LBI home. (And I still can not believe I am saying that, I am so blessed).

After pedaling to Slice of Heaven and gobbling down our favored white pizza, we ended up at the playground just a stone’s throw from the house.  Eagerly, we dashed over wood-chips towards the playground favorite: the swing set.

Every time I begin pumping, kicking my feet toward the heavens, wind rushing past me as I drift back and forth,  I am taken back to first grade.  I can still distinctly remember the dainty classmate who would swing back and forth hair almost dragging the ground as she kicked her legs.  She would jerk her head back on every up swing, her long, wavy, brown hair catching the breeze in just the right way leaving me dazzled (and envious from my toes all the way up) of my petite little peer.  I longed for locks like hers so that one day I could be just as mesmerizing as I floated from the sky back towards Earth.

Now, thirteen or so years later I still want to be that girl.  Every time I go on the swings I do feel just a little bit more beautiful inside.  There is something about the playful charm of swinging.  The swings make you sort of hope you are just like way you look; full of the spirited innocence of a child on the inside, all the while stunning on the outside, simply captivating all the way through.

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