This past weekend, Josh and I were walking through the East Village to meet some friends for dinner. As we headed north on Avenue A, passing Thompson Square Park, I noticed a girl swinging at the playground. She was alone, and I could hear the familiar sound of creaking as she kicked forward and fell back, forward and back. She seemed so peaceful, methodical. I blurted that I wanted to swing… not to Josh, exactly, just to anyone, but completely interrupting whatever conversation we were having.
At recess, ever so long ago, swinging was “my thing” (unless, of course, red rover was being played). Swinging felt like almost flying while still being safe; your stomach could drop slightly, adrenaline could build, you could kick the sky. If you closed your eyes, you could completely loose track of where you were. I’ve tried to swing on our old swing set at home, but my legs kick the ground now and nephews would rather be pushed.
But this swing set may be my size. And while I’m late in experiencing it (Savannah and Matt took a ride last year), I do hope the Waterfall Swing makes it’s way back to New York so I can take a spin. Otherwise, I’ll settle for Thompson Square Park this weekend.