Swinging This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine.

January 14, 2013
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“Swinging. Alex is with me. – Gwen”

I slide the note, hastily scrawled on a torn piece of notebook paper in my messy nine-year-old printing, under the door where my parents are sleeping.

“Come on,” I whisper, quietly making my way down the hallway of my great-aunt Winnie's house. The sliding door opens quickly without a sound, and I step barefooted onto the wooden deck. My brother follows.

It is early morning, and everything is still in the back yard. The small town of Elmira, New York, is peaceful. Bees and birds flutter past, and the steps creak as we shuffle down them. The grass is wet with morning dew, the chill of the water nips at my feet. The wooden swing hangs on its ropes from the large maple bordering the edge of the yard. In my aunt's pool, small waves ripple across the turquoise surface, a leaf or two bobbing in the small surges. A cool breeze lifts the hair slightly off the back of my neck.

“Will you push me?” I ask Alex.

“Yes,” he replies, his tone monotonous. I climb onto the swing, and my brother's strong, steady hands push against my back. I ride the swing as it floats back and forth. The old branch sways and bows under my weight, but it does not buckle. The rough rope of the swing creaks as it rubs against the bark. I shift on the swing to avoid splinters from the unsanded wooden seat. The edge of the tall, uncut grass tickles the bottoms of my feet. I reach my toes, carefree, to the clear blue sky.

This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.

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kmeep said...
Jan. 25, 2013 at 2:43 pm
This is really good. I love how you described everything so nicely.
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