The swing set in their their backyard was evergreen, angled legs buried among the smooth stones of a playground’s gravel. Their mother would shoo them out the sliding glass doors, the house couldn’t contain two growing boys and their spirited sister.
She’d scamper down the grassy hill, passing the roses, transplants from their previous rambler in another affluent suburb. That house was too small for their growing family but she remembers the room she shared with her baby brother fondly. The tiny dresser with yellowed fabric, decorative flowers and overlapping plaid; just flashes, fragments of memories.
This new house was bigger, each child their own room, a greenbelt bordering their backyard. She liked to explore among the sticker bushes, pretend to make a meal from the salmon berries that lined the creek each spring.
Two swings hung from the top bar of the modest play set and she usually started here, choosing the one on the left if she beat her brother to it. Skinny legs pumped high, leaning back and letting go at the top of the arc; just the right timing to jump far, ever farther, trying to beat her previous sneakers’ impression in the gravel.
Then she’d move on to the face-to-face glider, tiny backed seats allowed swinging with a friend. They’d hold on to chained ropes on either side, leaning back, leaning forward, mirrored and synchronized.
Eventually they’d grow too big, knees touching. Other activities took precedence as outdoor play receded into childhood. Green paint peeled, rust emerged. Too many years neglected in the damp Northwest air.
