It’s like flying.

Without going very far.

The earth disappears below you, and you rise skyward, your vision filled with cerulean and white and scalloped edges so bold and bright in front of you that it’s difficult to tell whether the blue frames the white or the white frames the blue.

Into that blue, birds fly head first, but our feet lead, no longer the leaden earth-bound weights they usually are.

We swing up, up – then back in the prescribed arc so that we can fly forward again. We are both free and bound.

“Push me!” plead the small children, with eyes or words.

“Push me!” pled my daughter last week, as I stepped away from her to push her brother’s swing.

I stopped and looked at her. Her brother slowed but she swung as high as before, then higher still. Her legs propelled her forward then back.

We realized at the same time.

“I’m pumping!”

“I don’t need to push you!”

I cheered her and she flew, as happily as if she had wings, as if the chains themselves were made of cloud.