A Swing in the Park
Faster! Higher! Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
I pushed as hard as I could, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. Not in the last 10 years have I heard “that’s great” or “good job”. I’m covered in sweat, and the sun isn’t helping.
My foot slips, sending me stumbling forward mid-push. I manage to catch myself before it’s too late, thankfully.
It’s getting harder. My back is in knots, a result of time, stress, and exertion taking its toll. Don’t believe the hype — 50 is not the new 40.
What happened, daddy? Faster! Faster!
I grit my teeth and push again. And again. And again.
The park was fairly empty at first. Just a few people scattered around. That made it much easier to have some space to work with. But now there are dozens of people, and I don’t know how I can get out without bumping into someone. I hate crowds.
Weeeeeeeeeeeeee!
My heart is racing. I need to stop and get out of here soon. She was right, I shouldn’t have gone out again so quickly. I should have slowed down. Now I’m stuck and in pain with no exit strategy. Good job, idiot.
I can only hope things will work out.
A blood-curdling scream cuts through the serenity. All heads turn instinctively to the source of the sound. A woman cups her mouth and nose, crying, screaming about a body in the bushes through panicked gasps.
I get distracted and forget to push. The swing stops. A small head turns a smaller pair of eyes until they make contact with my own. Butterflies? Yeah right. A hundred-pound brick manifests and drops in my stomach.
This is a situation someone like me never wants to find themselves in. What do I say? What do I do? What’s the right move? They don’t exactly give you an instruction manual for this kind of thing. Adrenaline pumps and panic overtakes me. The spiral is broken by four words from the little person sitting in a swing in front of me.
You’re not my daddy!
I run.
