The Swing
My roof had grown quiet. Roofers lounged in the shade of midafternoon, nibbling food from brown bags. I watched from my window as one of the men shuffled to the 25 foot swing in our backyard, enticing him with its gentle sway. He approached with hesitation and an air of embarrassment, as if grown men don’t swing. His comrades hollered jabs in a language I didn’t know but understood. Teasing is universally recognized. The roofer crept forward as if that plank were a wild creature he longed to stroke. Taking a seat, he gave in to the force of gravity. Push . . . pull . . . push . . . pull.