Swing Time

I ran across the dusty, gravel-covered yard towards the house, my long strides hastening the approach.  I grabbed the old, wooden banister and hopped up onto the first of three narrow steps.  The boards creaked, weary from the countless feet that have trod over them before me.  I bounded across the weather-worn porch, hesitating only briefly to peer through the screened door, at the activity inside the house.  Crossing the porch, I dropped with a sigh onto the wooden swing.  Suspended from the roof by two rusting metal chains, the swing swayed from side to side as I relaxed against it.  Almost without thinking, I began to push my feet ahead along the porch, then skip them back, righting the swing’s drift.  After a few minutes, I lifted my feet onto the swing as the motion continued.  I gazed aimlessly before me.  This is happiness.  This is summer.