There is an old swing in my grandma’s yard. I remember my grandfather pushing me on it, swinging with my sisters, reading Nancy Drew and Dickens, and accidentally getting trapped under it once. It sways slightly as I breath, a gentle wind is helping it along a bit.
It sits under a large shade tree with smooth glassy leaves, smooth splotchy bark and long branching limbs I scrambled up as a child. There is a cool breeze drifting over the Birdhouse where my Grandpa’s wood shop and garage are. The late afternoon sun peeps through the oaks on the far side of the yard, glinting off the rusting blades of the tall windmill and casting the mesquite tree in a better light than I will see it when I will go inside and end up with thorns in my foot.
A large red fence is in front of the swing and I can see children running around and jumping on a trampoline. They are laughing and screaming in the most jubilant manor.
I keep glancing in my grandmother’s window catching the glint of the T.V.
There are so many memories here. I lost a toenail on the rock rim of one of the tress. In the sandy corner by the wood shop my little sister and I painted a child’s table yellow, so that grandpa would have something pretty to put his tools and spare nails on. That was in the same wood shop where we, Grandpa mostly, built a heart shaped footstool based on one my mother painted.
The best part are the mockingbirds whose constant chatters fill the yard with a variety of sounds.
I love this spot. It has been my spot since I was little.
I keep expecting B or C to come grab my book away or mom to tell me to come set the table.