xxxx. Push .xxxx
My fingers curl around the chains, avoiding the rust, testing how tightly I can grasp them without scraping my skin raw. Overhead the sky is blue, the clouds are silver, so beautiful that I close my eyes against them. My eyes are red rimmed and streaked, and they hurt when I close them, even more when I rub them with my fists. The pavement beneath my shoes is rough and unwelcoming, the seat on the swing plastic and uncomfortable. The park is deserted and empty, save for myself, and this much is welcome.
My parents have been fighting. Before I open the door, the chains and the locks being slipped away to nothing by my nimble fingers; I hear the shouting and the yelling. For a moment I hesitate, catching my breath, trying my hardest to be indifferent to the coldness creeping up on my heart. I fight the tears that well up in my eyes, fight the sob traveling in my throat, fight everything...
I've tried to rid myself of this pain so many times. I've tried to feel it all at once. The pain becomes so strong that I stop breathing, my heart stops beating, and I, for a moment feel lightheaded. I have to dissuade myself from using this method, before I execute it too long and faint. I've also tried to reassure myself that this does not matter, this pain is familiar enough to fade into the background. Indifference is the key, and I cannot seem to grasp it.
I slipped my backpack through the opening I made in the door, careful not to rattle the chains. Closing the door, silencing the arguing just a little, I let out the sigh I've been holding and run to the park before the first tears fall.
And so here I am, the tips of my toes touching the ground, trying to gain leverage enough to begin swinging. But I can't. I have no energy, no will to push myself and I fall back against the chains and begin to cry. At these times I cry not for my parents, but for myself. I feel self loathing and pity for the girl who is fourteen years old and still cries on the swing. I am ashamed of myself for my weakness and at the same time proud of it. I am stronger because of this pain, and every time I will rise quicker. Time will not erase this pain, but maybe it can blend it into the background enough for it to be ignored.
There are hands are my back, and I stiffen wondering who could be behind me and how could I have been blind enough not to see them. My hands itch to wipe my tears away, but I hold them firmly at the chains. I wont speak, my voice is cracked and dry and I cannot make it appear smooth. If I can wait a couple of minutes...
"You're crying."
He says, and at once I know who he is. I dip my head low enough to stare at the fabric of my shirt.
"Go away."
I croak, and my voice sounds as horrid as I thought it would.
She's not quite seven when she hears her parents first fight. A little girl buried in the folds of her mothers skirt, she hears the yelling and cannot determine who says what. All she knows is that she wants it to stop. But it doesn't. It never will.
His hands run up and down my back, circling motions, trying to achieve a soothing effect. I lean backwards, letting the palm of his hands support me, and I close my eyes.
"I meant it when I said I wanted you to go away."
I whisper.
"You want me to let you fall?"
He asks, referring to his hands supporting my body.
"No."
I say, referring to something else, something much older.
She doesn't know the strange boy, only that he is a nuisance to her. She is eleven now, still crying on the left swing of the park. But now he is here, brown eyed, and she finds she cannot cry. He comes up to her, his smile small and unwavering. He is younger than her, but at that moment she feels much younger than him. The tears unwillingly slip down her cheeks, but he never stops smiling. He begins to push.
"Then don't ask me to go away."
He replies, his hands pushing my forward, enough for me to maintain my own weight. His hands travel to the chains, and clasp around my own.
"They've been fighting, haven't they?"
"Yes."
My voice sounds very small.
"It's alright, I'm glad that I found you crying then. I don't want you to keep it all in."
He says, a bit thoughtfully, and then leans into my ear. His breath tickles the hairs at my nape, and I let out a sigh.
"Lift your feet."
Is all he says, and then his hands take their place at my shoulders.
A year later, she is twelve and in seventh grade. She is surprised to see that the brown eyed boy recognizes her, and more, he wants to be her friend. She allows it, even though she fears that he might exploit her weakness. He never says it, but she knows he remembers the little girl, on the swing, crying. She never says it, but she remembers that he is the boy who pushed her until she was laughing, and the wind dried her tears.
I feel like outstretching my hands at the clouds, because I feel like I can touch them when I'm at my highest. The ground is gone, replaced by sky and laughter and something that vaguely feels like happiness. And even though I should be oblivious to the world, and revel in the freedom of the air, I am strongly aware of the hands that push me upward every time I begin to descend.
It isn't long before my laughter echoes in the wind, and I begin to hear the creaking of the swings. I yell for him to stop, slow down, but he doesn't. I panic, under the impression that the chains will break and I will be hurled far into the sky. A moment later, his hands no longer push me, but rather catch me, slowing down the ride.
I come to a halt, his hands around my own, stilling the chains. My feet touch the ground. I take in a deep breath, determination fills me, and I remember what it is like to be childishly happy.
"Again?"
He asks.
On Sunday afternoons, when their other friends are occupied, they venture to the park. She immediately races to her respective swing, and watches the sky which never seems to change. The clouds are silver, still beautiful against the azure sky. She hasn't pushed herself in quite a while, she notices, and part of wishes she'd never have to again. She doesn't turn around when she feels his fingers at her shoulders. Reassuring, and readying, they leave and his palms replace them.
"Again."
I agree, and he begins to push.